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COJRRIGHT DEPOSJtr. 



THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 



THREE PLAYS 
BY NOEL LESLIE 



WASTE .-. THE WAR-FLY 
FOR KING AND COUNTRY 




Boston 

The Four Seas Company 

1920 



t). 



Copyright, 1920, hy 
The Four Seas Company 



All rights are expressly reserved. For rights of public per- 
formance, address the publishers, who are the author's agents. 



APR - 1 1920 



The Four Seas Press 
Boston, Mass., U. S. A. 



D 54359 



TO 

MY WIFE 



WASTE 



CHARACTERS 



Fred Lacey, a musician. 
Agnes, his wife. 
Marian, 



Winifred, 



>• their daughters 
Charley Jackson, a young engineer. 

Time: The first decade of the twentieth century. 

Scene: The sitting-room of the Lacey s' cottage in the 
town of Winfleetj England. 



WASTE 



The action of the play passes in the sitting-room 
of the Laceys' cottage at Winfleet, a town in 
one of the eastern counties of England. It is 
a bleak evening in March. Darkness has fallen 
and the night promises to be stormy. There are 
occasional gusts of wind which rattle the windows 
and moan round the eaves. A street lamp from 
without throws a yellow beam through the un- 
shuttered bay window, diffusing a little light 
throughout the room, and falling directly upon 
the solitary figure seated within. The distem- 
pered walls are damp, here and there, in ominous 
looking patches. The floor is covered with an old 
and tattered carpet. The ceiling is dirty and 
cracked. A piece of lead piping protrudes from 
the centre, but is useless, the gas supply being 
cut off. Down to the right stands a straight- 
backed horsehair chair, one of a set of six, and 
immediately above it a door leads to the kitchen 
on the right, the light from which is visible under 
the sill. In the centre of the wall to the right is 
the fireplace. The hearth is surrounded by an 
unpolished fender and is furnished with but two 
irons, a thin poker and a meagre shovel with 
a large hole in the scoop. A miserable fire 
smoulders in the grate. There is no receptacle 
either for coal or other firing. The wooden man- 
[9] 



10 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

telpiece is painted to resemble marble, and the 
shelf is covered by a dull red cloth with a torn 
fringe. Upon this stand: a cheap alarm clock, 
flanked by two inverted china cups, two vases, 
some pipes in a rack, a matchbox and several 
photographs. Two views, framed in green plush, 
hang on the wall above with a family group 
between. In the corner up to the right is a nine- 
inch drain pipe, converted into an umbrella stand, 
and in front of this is another chair. The bay 
window is fitted with yellow blinds and dressed 
by two skimpy curtains. 

This window fills the right centre of the back wall and 
in it stands an oblong wicker worktable bearing a 
well kept fern set in a blue bowl, this receptacle 
being much cracked and chipped. A third chair 
stands between the window and the door up to the 
left. This door opens inwards directly from the 
street. There is a knocker outside and an inverted 
horseshoe loosely nailed to the inside. A dilapi- 
dated door-mat lies on the threshold. Against the 
left wall to the centre is an upright piano with 
its attendant screw-top stool. The upper part of 
the instrument is littered with music and in the 
centre is a white hyacinth in a red pot standing 
in a saucer. The keyboard is closed. Below the 
piano is another chair. In the middle of the room 
are two more chairs and a circular table of 
mahogany, its green cloth much stained. An oil 
lamp, unlit, is in its centre and to the right a 
pitcher of water and a glass. An armchair with 
two hard cushions and a pillow is placed to the 
right on the outer edge of the black hearthrug. 

The general effect is one of poor respectability. 

There should be sufficient light from the foots for 
every article to be discernable. 



WASTE II 

As the curtain rises, Marian is discovered, seated in 
the armchair. She is a young woman of twenty- 
seven. Although at one time beautiful, her body 
is now wasted by disease. The face is oval and 
of sallow complexion, save for a hectic flush on 
either cheek. The eyes are dark and unnaturally 
bright, the lips thin and compressed. Her black 
hair is parted in the middle, and hangs in two 
plaits over her thin shoulders. A few stray wisps 
curl limply on her forehead and neck, damp with 
the sweat of the consumptive. She wears an old 
red flannel kimono, a dark skirt, black cotton 
stockings, and red felt slippers with pompoms. 
Her sleeves are rolled back to the elbows, showing 
her wasted arms and the transparent hands are 
folded in her lap. She is leaning back against the 
cushions with her head on the pillow, her whole 
attitude being one of extreme exhaustion. 

After a pause she rises, very slowly and with much 
effort and moves painfully to the mantle-shelf. 
She leans upon it for support until she can regain 
her breath. A racking, choking cough seizes 
her. The fit having passed, she wipes her 
mouth with her handkerchief and takes the 
matchbox from the shelf. Crossing to the table 
she removes the chipped globe and funnel from 
the lamp with extreme care and, carefully rubbing 
the wick, lights it. This operation completed 
she turns, looks at the clock, which shows a few 
minutes after eight, and moves as if to go up to 
the window. As she starts however, another fit 
of coughing arrests her. Grasping the back 
of the chair she crawls into it and collapses, 
moaning faintly and clutching at her breast. 
She then lets her hands fall to the arms of the 



12 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

chair and moves her head feebly from side to 
side. 
Enter from the kitchen at the right her mother, 
AGNES LACEY. She is a little creature, in- 
credibly thin, dressed entirely in black with a 
blouse of sateen. Her face is angular and 
emaciated, with high cheekbones and prominent 
jaw. Several of the front teeth are missing. 
The eyes are red, the skin chapped, and the mouth 
thin-lipped and quivering. Her scanty brown 
hair, rapidly turning grey, is tightly pulled over 
from her forehead into a small hard knot at the 
back. The hands are bony and red, thoroughly 
coarsened by incessant hard work. She moves 
quickly and noiselessly, rubbing her hands togeth- 
er, clasping and unclasping, or plucking with them, 
at her skirt. She is abnormally nervous and 
apprehensive, starting violently at every sound. 
Altogether she presents a pathetic and heart- 
rending appearance. 

Agnes, [going up to window and drawing blinds.] 
Why ever didn't you call me? It's wrong to make 
yourself cough like that over an old lamp. 
{She finishes drawing blinds] 
Why did you do it? 

Marian. Charley may be here any moment. I 
don't want him to find everything dark. 

Agnes. [Coming above armchair] How do you 
feel now? 

Marian. Oh, just the same. 

Agnes takes the matches from the table and 
places them on the pipe-rack. She sighs 
heavily. 
Isn't Winnie home yet? 



WASTE 13 

Agnes. No, the wicked girl. Her supper's been 
ready an hour or more. 

Marian. Mother, could you manage a Uttle more 
coal? 

Agnes. [Going right] I'll try. It is cold in here. 

[Exit right.] 

Marian glances at the clock, re-settles herself 
in her chair and clears her throat. There is 
a sound off to the right as of scraping out a 
coal-scuttle. Presently Agnes re-enters 
bearing a large shovel half full of coal- 
dust which she proceeds to pour carefully 
into the dying fire. It flares a little, but soon 
settles down to its former smoky smoulder. 

Agnes. [Turning with empty shovel] That's all I 
can manage. 

She exits right and returns without the shovel 
and closes the door. 

There's not another shovelful in the house. 

Marian. The doctor told me to keep warm. It's 
so cold in bed. We must get some more fire to- 
morrow. 

Agnes. [Sitting right of table] Lord knows where 
it'll come from. Your cough's no better to-day? 

Marian. It's as well as ever it will be. 

Agnes. You mustn't talk that way Marian. They 
let you out of the hospital didn't they? 

Marian. Because they knew it was hopeless. 

Agnes. Why, child, whatever do you mean? 

Marian. Discharged as incurable. 

[Agnes protests.] 

Oh, don't let it worry you. I know. Galloping con- 
sumption. That's what the doctor told Charley. 
Agnes. Charley? 



14 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

Marian. Yes. He told me. You couldn't hide it 
from me for ever, you know. Besides, I'd rather be 
told. 

[The wind moans without.] 

Agnes. Oh dear. Oh dear. What's to become of 
me? 

[She rocks herself to and fro, beginning to weep.] 

Marian. Perhaps Dad'll begin to realize things 
now. 

Agnes. We shall never manage, never. I can't do 
anything without you. You've been so good ... so 
good . . . always. I'll never have a penny if you go. 

Marian. I shan't make so much difference. 
Winnie'll be earning soon. 

Agnes. [Scornfully] She won't earn enough to 
keep a cat. We'll end in the workhouse, that's what'U 
happen . . . the workhouse. 

Marian. Well, it's no use crying about it. When 
do you expect Dad? 

Agnes. [Petulantly] I don't know. 

Marian. We must make him understand some- 
how. Where has he been to-day? 

Agnes. Minster. For Julia Perry and Annie 
Franklin's lessons. That means three shillings. He 
ought to be back by now. It's choir-practice to-night 
at eight-thirty. He'll never get there in time, even if 
he's able. They'll take the organ away from him. 

Marian. Mother! 

Agnes. They said they would the next time 'e 
wasn't sober. 

Marian. He's never gone to practice . . . bad, 
has he? 

Agnes. Yes, 'e 'as. And next time 'e'll get the 
sack. I know. The sack. You see if 'e doesn't. 
It'll be to-night, too. 



WASTE 15 

Marian. [Glancing at the clock] P'r'aps he's gone 
straight to Church without coming home? 

Agnes, 'e won't go straight anywhere, not with 
three shillings in 'is pocket. 

Marian. There's the fare? 

Agnes. That's only five pence ha'penny, and 'e 'ad 
that when he left this morning. And I 'aven't got a 
penny . . . not one. 

Marian. Never mind. I've something left. Enough 
for the coal, and some bread and milk. It'll keep us 
going till my cheque comes. 

Agnes. Another cheque? 

Marian. Yes. 

Agnes. [Drying her eyes\ Well, that's good news. 

Marian. The clerk wrote to say they were grant- 
ing me another month's salary. That makes six 
months' leave of absence on full pay. They've been 
very kind. 

Agnes. Kind? So they ought. 'Aven't you al- 
ways been a good teacher? [Eagerly] 'ow much will 
it be? 

Marian.. .About six pounds ten. 

Agnes. We owe three pounds for rent. 

Marian. Pay one pound on account. That'll keep 
them quiet for a few weeks. 

[She has another coughing fit. Agnes pours 

out some water and makes her sip it. The 

wind moans.] 

Ah, well, things might be worse. Winnie should hear 

from the managers soon. She's very late, mother. 

Don't you think she stays out too long? 

Agnes. I can't control 'er a bit. I'm not to blame. 
She's got a bit of 'er father in 'er; that's what's the 
matter. It won't be drink, though, please God. 

Marian. It couldn't be worse, could it? 

Agnes. No, that it couldn't. [5"o&.?.] 



i6 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

Marian. I expect Dick Webster's out with her. 

Agnes. Well, 'e's a good boy. Not like Charley, 
though. 

Marian. No, there's only one Charley. [She 
looks at the clock.] I hope he'll come. He's dread- 
fully late. 

Agnes. It's rather windy for cycling maybe. 
There's not many who'd ride sixteen miles on a night 
like this. 

Marian. He'll come, though. Poor Charley, I 
knew I'd bring him trouble . . . nothing but trouble. 
You know, mother, I haven't told him much about 
Dad. 

Agnes. Just as well. 

Marian. I was afraid it'd make a difference. 

Agnes. No wonder. 

Marian. But it wouldn't 'ave. He'll never 
change. 

Agnes. That's the way I used to talk. 

Marian. We'd have been engaged now if it hadn't 
been for his people. They wouldn't hear of it. 

Agnes. Why? 

Marian. He's younger for one thing, and I sup- 
pose they thought I wasn't good enough. 

Agnes. Marian ! 

Marian. It's natural. 

[A door bangs off to the right and a clumsy 
clattering is heard in the kitchen. The women 
exchange meaning looks.] 

Agnes. [Rising and going noiselessly to the right.] 
I'll see 'e doesn't come in 'ere. Don't let Charley go 
without seeing me. [Exit right.] 

[Marian sighs heavily. The noise continues 
and is accompanied by the sound of voices. 



WASTE 17 

She clears her throat and looks toward the 
pitcher. She starts to rise when the door up 
to the left is flung open and Winifred enters. 
She is a lithe, pretty girl of sixteen, dressed 
in a blue serge coat and short skirt, a thin 
white cotton blouse with a dark red tie, red 
tarn 0' shanter, black shoes and stockings. 
She carries a satchel full of books. Her 
hair is dark and hangs down her back in one 
thick plait. Her face is beautifully chiseled, 
very flushed, and her eyes are sparkling. She 
stands in the doorway, panting slightly, her 
thin lips moist and parted, her nostrils quiver- 
ing with excitement.^ 

Winifred. Hello, sis! 
Marian. Hush. 

[Winifred, subdued, closes the door quietly, 
places the satchel on a chair, comes to 
the centre above the table and removes her 
jacket.] 

Give me a drink, Winnie. 
Winifred. Sorry. 

[She takes the glass to Marian, and kisses her 
before she can drink.] 

Is he ... ? 
Marian. Yes. 

Winifred. When'd he come in? 
Marian. Just before you. 

[Winifred places the glass on the table and sits 
right centre.] 

Winifred. [Shuddering involuntarily] Old beast! 

Marian. Are you cold? 

Winifred. Cold? I've been cold all virinter, so 



i8 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

I'm used to it. S'pose I'll have a cough next. Might 
as well die for all he'd care. 

Marian. Don't dear, you mustn't. What's the 
news ? 

Winifred. Not much. I'm to start school here in 
September. Pupil teacher. 

Marian. Winnie, I am glad! Mother will be 
pleased. [Kisses her.] 

Winifred. Fat lot I'll get out of it. 

Marian. How much to start? 

Winifred. Start? Eighteen pounds for a whole 
year. 

Marian. Eighteen. That's twelve . . . one . . . 
and six . . . ten. One pound ten. Thirty shillings a 
month. It isn't so bad. More than I got. 

Winifred. Well, I think it's rotten. Six shillings 
a week, teaching grubby Httle brats all day. Ugh. 

[She crosses her legs disgustedly and sprawls, 
with her head on her hand, the arm resting on 
the table. \ 

Marian. Think what it'll mean to Mother. Six 
shillings is a good deal. You must think of her. 

Winifred. Why doesn't Dad think of her? You've 
thought of her all your life and look what it's brought 
you. [There is a pause.] Aren't I ever going to 
have any fun? 

Marian. You have a good deal more than I had. 

Winifred. It's a fat lot, isn't it? Besides, Dad 
wasn't so bad when you were my age. I've heard you 
tell of all sorts of good times before we came here. 

Marian. Why were you so late to-night? 

Winifred. What's that got to do with it? 

Marian. Dick Webster I suppose. Where did he 
take you? 

Winifred. Why should he take me anywhere? 



WASTE 19 

Marian, You'd have been in the kitchen long ago 
if you hadn't had supper, Dad or no Dad. 

Winifred. [Scornftdly] Old bread and butter! 

Marian. Bread and butter's good at any time, es- 
pecially when you're hungry. 

Winifred. There's no harm in having a boy stand 
you a cup of tea, is there? 

Marian. Harm? I never said so. That's what I 
call having a good time. 

Winifred. Is it? Well, I don't. But there's not 
much chance of my getting anything better if I stay 
here. Swotting for all these beastly exams, slaving 
for a few measly shillings, and then giving it all to 
Mother for Dad to . . . 

Marian. Don't. 

Winifred. It's true . . . for Dad to drink ! I'm 
sick of it . . . that's all. [She goes up left for satchel.] 
I'm not a kid any more. I'm sick of it . . . absolutely 
sick of it. Charley knows. [Coming centre.] Char- 
ley doesn't think I ought to go on putting up with it. 

[She goes right to door.] 

Marian. Charley! What do you mean? Putting 
up with what? 

Winifred. Oh, he knows. He's not a fool. 
Everybody knows about Dad. Clear out . . . that's 
what Charley says. Teach if you must . . . but not 
near home . . . clear out. [Musingly] I wonder if 
he meant what he said? Oh, I wish I could go to 
Devonshire ... I wish . . . 

Marian. Devonshire . . . Devonshire . . . ? 

[Winifred looks embarrassed.] 

What are you talking about? Winnie . . . what did 
Charley say about Devonshire? 

Winifred. [Confusedly] Nothing . . . nothing. 



20 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

I don't know why I said it , . . really . . . [She goes 
to Marian and kneels, putting her arms round her.] 
'Cos it's the other side of England, I suppose. I want 
to go away. That's the farthest place I could think of. 

Marian. [Kissing her] I know dear, I know. But 
you mustn't let yourself feel like that. You mustn't 
listen to what anybody says . . not even Charley. Do 
what you feel to be right, what you feel is your duty. 
I've always felt that my first duty was to Mother. 
That is the right thing. She will need you presently, 
dear. You mustn't dream of leaving her. 

Winifred. Oh, I wish I were like you. I'm a sel- 
fish little cat . . . but I do so want to be happy. Oh, 
sis, I do love you. You'll always believe that, won't 
you . . . whatever happens? 

Marian. Yes, dear, of course. [They comfort 
each other.] I do wish he'd come. 

Winifred. Charley? Is he coming? To-night? 

Marian. I think so. He promised to. 

Winifred. [Rising] It looked like rain just now. 
If it rains he'll have to catch the 9.10. 

Marian. That's why I wish he'd come now. I 
shall have him for such a little time. 

[Re-enter Agnes.] 

Agnes. [To Winifred] You naughty girl. Where 
'ave you been? 

Winifred. [Exuberantly] It's all right, "Mumps." 
I've had supper and I'm going to teach school here . . 
in September. 

[She flings herself onto her mother and over- 
whelms all her protestations.] 

Agnes. Don't make such a noise, child. Mind 
your father. [To Marian] 'e won't eat anything. 
Marian. Is he going to practice? 
Agnes. Yes . . . presently. 



WASTE 21 

Marian. He'll be late. 
Agnes. Wants to see you first. 

[Winifred is getting her satchel and hat.] 

Your supper's waiting, Winnie. 

Winifred. [Coming to door right] Don't want 
any, thanks. I'm going to swot. 

[Agnes motions fearfully toward the kitchen.] 

Pooh. He can't scare me. [Exit] 

[The wind moans. Agnes turns up the lamp.] 

Marian. What does he want? Money? 

Agnes. Yes. 

Marian. You told him I . . . ? 

Agnes. [Nervously] No, but . . . 

Marian. What? 

Agnes. He knows I had some from Charley. He 
wants ... he wants you to ask him for more. 

Marian. [Aghast] Ask Charley for money? You 
never told me he'd . . . oh, Mother, . . . and you told 
him Charley was coming? 

Agnes. No . . . No. He wants you to write. 

Marian. Where's the money he earned to-day? 
Didn't he give the lessons? 

Agnes. He's spent it all. The return fare . . . 
and his lunch . . . and then ... he stopped at the 
"Lion," on the way home from the station. 

[Marian chokes and coughs. Enter Fred 
Lacey. Agnes shrinks away, and exits right, 
closing the door quietly after her. Lacey is 
a tall, well-built man of forty-seven, careful- 
ly but shabbily dressed. His hair is dark and 
curly, and a fine moustache covers his upper 
lip. He is decidedly good-looking, but bloated 
with drink. His eyes are rheumy and blood- 



22 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

shot. His hands delicate and artistic, but 
very shaky. He speaks thickly, being only 
half-sober. As Marian stops coughing he 
edges uneasily to the chair left of the table.] 

Fred. Well, old girl . . . cough bad? 

Marian. No, Dad. 

Fred. Pretty bad, I reckon. Mind if I sit down a 
minute? Won't upset you? 

Marian. Of course not. Did you have a good 
day? 

Fred. Not very. Those girls'U never learn the 
piano. Can't teach 'em anything ... no sense. 

Marian. See anyone I know? 

Fred. Old Timmins asked after you. Bert Steb- 
bing. 

Marian. Bert? How is he? 

Fred. Doing fine. Building a new skiff for 
Beecham. 

Marian. Really. Good old Bert. Where'd you 
see him? 

Fred, [embarrassed] Down town. 

Marian. The "Lion"? 

Fred. [Rising] I'd just stopped in for a minute. 

Marian. Dad, I wish you wouldn't. [He starts 
to go.] Dad . . . don't go without giving me a kiss. 

[Fred crosses behind table and hisses her.] 

Fred. Sorry, old girl . . . sorry. 

Marian. Bring the chair closer, Dad. [He does 
so.] Sit down. [He sits.] Dad, try and do some- 
thing for your little girl, will you? 

Fred. What? 

Marian. Don't go to the "Lion" so often. Or 
anywhere like that . . . please. We can't afford it. 

Fred. All right. I'll try. That's all right, . . . 
you're a good girl. 



WASTE 23 

Marian. I ... I can't help you any more . . . 
now. 

Fred. Eh. You're not that bad, lass. You're 
not ... ? 

Marian. Not yet. But I've had to resign. 

Fred. Resign. Why? 

Marian. I can't work any more. I shall never go 
back. No more school for me. No more money . . . 

[She chokes.] 

Fred. [Rising] No more money? There's Winnie. 
She ought to be earning now. [Trying to comfort 
her] That's all right, lass. Don't cry. You've done 
your best for your poor old father. [He feels in his 
pockets for his pipe. Must have lost it. [He sees 
pipe-rack on mantle.] Have to take an old one. [He 
crosses, takes one and, in withdrawing it, pulls the rack 
against one of the inverted china cups.] That's all 
right, old girl. Don't worry. There's Charley Jack- 
son. 

Marian. You can't do it! You shan't do it! 
Haven't you any pride? 

Fred. [MaudUnly] Well . . . the money's got to 
come from somewhere. He'll lend us a bit surely. 

Marian. He hasn't got any. 

Fred. He gave your mother a sovereign two weeks 
ago. 

Marian. [Reproachfully] And you let her take 
it . . . 

Fred. Let her take it? I wasn't there. [With a 
drunken chuckle] Only wish I had been. I didn't get 
half of it . . . not half. [He puts his pipe in his 
mouth and clumsily reaches for the match-box by the 
rack. The cup is nozu on the very edge of the shelf.] 
I don't know where the money's coming from unless 
you write to Charley, Wish to Heaven I did. [His 



24 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

sleeve catches the cup and it falls to the floor with a 
crash. A silver coin that has lain hidden beneath it 
rolls to his feet. Marian cannot rise in time to secure 
it.] Hullo, what's this? Half a crown? Well, I'm 
blessed. Who says they don't beheve in prayer now? 
Direct answer to prayer. Dropped straight from 
Heaven. [He puts the coin in his pocket.] 

Marian. [Despairingly] Give it back, Dad. It's 
mine. I must have it. We haven't a penny. It's for 
bread and milk . . . there isn't a bit of coal in the 
house. [A bicycle bell rings loudly off left.] Charley! ! 
Fred. [Opening the door to the right, greatly re- 
lieved] Charley, eh? Another bit o' luck. Save a 
stamp. See? Don't have to write now. Ask him. 

[Exit right.] 
[Marian drops back limply into her chair. 
There is the sound, off, of a man jumping 
from his bicycle and the machine being placed 
up against the wall. A stamping of feet is 
followed by a knock at the door.] 
Marian. [Feebly] Winnie! 

[Winifred enters right immediately. She has 
been standing outside in hopeful anticipation 
of the new arrival. She crosses to the door 
left, flings it open, stands back and watches 
eagerly as Charley Jackson enters. He is 
a dark, slim young man of twenty-four, clad 
in a Norfolk suit, with thick woolen stockings 
and tan boots. His cap is stuck in his belt 
and he stands on the threshold, wiping the 
perspiration from his face and neck with his 
handkerchief.] 
Charley. [To Winifred] Hullo! 

[Winifred holds out her hand which he takes. 
He then crosses to Marian, bends over, and 



WASTE 25 

kisses her. The wind moans. He takes his 
cap from his belt and throws it on the table. 
Winifred watches his every movement.^ 

Marian. [To Winifred] The door. 

Winifred. Shall I bring the bike in? 

Charley. No. I don't think it'll rain. Too much 
wind. 

[Winifred closes the door. Charley sits by 
Marian's side. Winifred comes down cen- 
tre and looks at them.] 

Winifred. If it rains you'll have to catch the nine 
train. [She nods toward the clock. He follows her 
gaze.] Not much time. 

Marian. [Quietly but firmly] Good-night, Winnie. 

[Winifred goes to them and, as she bends over 

to kiss her sister, gives her right hand to 

Charley. He presses it for several moments. 

Winifred straightens and goes to door right. 

She has flushed scarlet.] 

Winifred. Be good. [Exit right.] 

Charley. Little beggar! 

Marian. She's a strange girl. Wants it to rain 
now, so she can go to the station with you. Always 
wants to be out. 

Charley. [Deliberately changing the subject] 
How have you been? 

Marian. Not very well, dear. 
Charley. Poor kid. 

[He makes as if to kiss her, but she stops him.] 
Marian. No. No more. It's not right. You 
should never kiss my mouth. 

Charley. Oh, rot. That's all piffle. Besides, I 
don't care. If I'm going to catch it, I am, that's all. 

[He kneels by her side and takes her head on 



26 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

his shoulder, kissing her passionately. 
Presently he sits on the floor, his right arm 
over her knee.] 

Marian. You're awfully late. 

Charley. Yes. Been hard at it all day. Beastly 
tired. Couldn't leave till nearly seven. Head wind 
up, too. 

Marian. You shouldn't have come. 

Charley. I had to, dear. Five minutes is better 
than no time at all. 

[He is playing with the pom-poms on her shoes. 
She kisses his head.] 

Marian. Do you remember when you gave me 
these ? 

Charley. Yes. 

Marian. The first time you came to the hospital. 

Charley. Christmas eve. Rummy Christmas, 
wasn't it? 

Marian. We've had some good times together, 
though, haven't we? 

Charley. Rather. 

[Her left hand strokes his hair. Her right lies 
on his shoulder. ] 

Marian. It's all over now. 

Charley. [Kissing her hand] Don't say that. 

Marian. I always told you you'd regret it. 

Charley. But I don't. 

Marian. It'd have been better for you if we'd 
never known each other. Your people were right after 
all. 

Charley. Rot. Just because I'm a couple of years 
younger? That's no reason. If it hadn't been for the 
beastly illness they'd have come round in time. 

Marian. Perhaps. Even if they had, you mightn't 
have cared for me then. 



WASTE ^1 

Charley. Marian, you know I never break a 

promise. . 

Marian. I'd rather you did than be miserable 
through keeping one. No, it's all for the best. 

{The door right opens. Charley rises. Fred 
enters awkwardly, hat in hand. ] 
Fred. Hullo, Charley! Nice night. 
Charley. [Holding out his hand] Bit wmdy. How 

d'you do? 

Fred. [Shaking hands] Glad to see you. [He 
moves up left. ] Just going out. 

Marlon. You'll be late for practice, Dad. 

Fred. [Drunkenly, as he puts on hat] Going down 
street. Get some things. [F^m^iw^] Bread, milk and 
coal. Very important. [He winks again.] [Chuck- 
ling, he fumbles with the door-knob, then turns and 
grins.] Most important. [He opens door.] [Wink- 
ing] Sh2.n't ht long. Good-night. [Exit left.] 
[Charley sits right of table, then turns to 
Marl\n protestingly.] 

Marian. Don't, don't say anything against him, 

Charley. But is he always like this? 

Marian. Fle's all right at heart. 

Charley. And yet you say everything's for the 
best. I don't see it. Good Lord, what an awful time 
you must have had. You must have kept the whole 

family. 

Marian. Well, I can't any more. I'll get my last 
cheque next week. I've had to resign. 

Charley. I knew it'd come to that. I only wish 
I could do something for you. 

Marian. No, no, you can't. You mustn't do any 
more. Oh, I know. Mother let it out this evening 
But you've got to promise never to do it again. It 



28 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

nearly killed me to think that you should give her 
money. 

Charley. Now, dear, you mustn't get upset. I 
didn't give it. I just lent it. It's nothing. Cheer up. 
Something's bound to happen. [They embrace.] 

Marian. As long as you come to see me, that's all 
I want. [He looks uncomfortable.] You won't stop 
coming to see me, will you, Charley? I can't live with- 
out you. I haven't long anyway, but if it weren't for 
you, I'd kill myself. Sometimes I wish to God I 
could die quicker. [He hides his face, and gives a 
stifled sob.] I know I don't stand a chance. It's just 
a question of time. The only thing I regret is leaving 
you, and I can't bear to do that. 

[He clings to her.] 

Charley. It's a rotten shame ! A rotten shame ! ! 
[The tears roll down his cheeks as he kisses her.] I've 
prayed every night for months that you'd get well, and 
this is the answer. It's all no good. 

Marian. God knows best. 

Charley. What right have you to suffer like this ? 
What have you done? Nothing. You're the finest, 
the best girl that ever lived. I don't believe you've 
ever done a single wrong thing. Just sacrificed your- 
self for your people. 

Marian. [Smiling] You still love me, don't you, 
Charley? 

Charley. Of course I do. I worship you. I'd 
give anything to save you. Why can't we be happy? 
Oh, I did hope . . . 

Marian. Never mind, dear. We've always done 
right. 

Charley. I almost wish we hadn't. Look how 
we've suffered. Why not your father? It isn't fair. 

Marian. We can't judge him, dear. I daresay he's 
miserable enough, poor old Dad. Besides, I'll be 



WASTE 29 

happy soon. I don't care what happens . . . after- 
wards. Peace . . . that's all I want . . . Peace . . . 
and rest. 

Charley. Don't . . . don't! 

Marian. I want you to promise me something. I 
shall never be able to marry you, but some day you'll 
find someone you'll want. Don't let any thought of me 
stand in the way. 

Charley. I'll never marry anyone . . . never. 

Marian. Yes you will, dear. You must. I could 
almost hate the girl, though. She'll be lucky. But, if 
there's such a thing as a guardian angel . . . I'll be 
yours. 

[He hides his face irt his hands. Presently he 
rises, goes to the window, pulls up the blind 
and looks out. He wipes his eyes surrepti- 
tiously, then re-draws the blind. He comes 
left of the table.] 

Charley. I . . . I've been trying to tell you some- 
thing ever since I came in. It's dreadfully hard, and 
it gets worse . . . harder . . . every minute. 

Marian. Don't be afraid, dear. As long as you 
love me and come to see me I can bear anything. 

Charley. That's just it. I've got a chance. 

Marian. You mean , . . ? 

Charley. I've been offered an appointment. 

Marian. Away? 

Charley. Yes. 

Marian. Far? 

Charley. Yes, dear. 

Marian. You're going? 

Charley. I feel I ought to take it. I can't go 
on where I am for ever. I'm hardly getting any money 
there, and this means . . . well ... a steady job and 
promotion. 



30 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

Marian. Of course you must take it. 

Charley. The devil of it is that it's so far away. 

Marian. Have you accepted? 

Charley. Yes. 

Marian. Well, it had to come, sometime. When 
must you go? 

Charley. Next week. 

Marian. Next week! . . . what day? 

Charley. Wednesday. 

Marian. [Rising] But, you're . . . you're coming 
to see me again? 

Charley. I'll try to, dear. 

Marian. Oh! [He takes her in his arms.] Don't 
leave me . . . don't leave me. I can't bear it. I 
thought I could, but I can't, Charley, I can't. You 
mustn't go. It's too much. Wait a little longer. It's 
only you who've kept me going. I can't bear to leave 
you. Charley, don't let me go. [There is a pause as 
they cling together.] You'll come and see me some- 
times, won't you? 

Charley. I can't for a long time, dear. 

Marian. I'll be dead by then. Where are you 
going. Where is it? 

Charley. Place called Tulford, in Devonshire. It's 
a good job. 

Marian. Where? 

Charley. Tulford, Devonshire. 

[Marian slowly pushes him from her.] 

Marian . Devonshire ? 

Charley. Yes. It's a rotten long way, isn't it? 

Marian. Devonshire. [She sinks into her chair. 
He stands over her, miserably. There is a knock at 
the door right. Enter Agnes.] 

Agnes. [To Charley] Are you going back by 
train ? 



WASTE 31 

Charley. Why? Is it raining? 
Agnes. Winnie says so. 
Charley. Good Lord. 

[He crosses to the door left and opens it, look- 
ing out at the sky.] 

Marian. [Slowly] Where is Winnie? 

Agnes. Putting something on Charley's bike to 
keep the rain off. 

Marian. [Smiling bitterly] Oh. 

Charley. [Coming in] It's not much. Just spit- 
ting. I'll risk it. 

[Enter Winifred from front door.] 

Winifred. Rotten luck, old top. 

Charley. Oh, it's not hard enough to matter. I'll 
ride. 

Winifred. You won't. Tire's punctured. 

Charley. Punctured? Which one? 

Winifred. The back, 

[Charley exits left.] 

Agnes. Dear, dear! 

Marian. [To Winifred, meaningly] How did it 
happen ? 

Winifred. [Z)^/ianf/3;] How should I know? [She 
crosses to door right.] Going to get my mac. 

[She exits right.] 

Charley. [Re-entering] 'Fraid I'll have to train 
it. Bad slit. Can't think how it happened. 

Agnes. The flints on that road are dreadful, aren't 
they, Marian? 

Marian. Are they? 

[Charley takes his cap.] 

Agnes. [To Marian] What is it, dear? Do you 
feel faint? 

Marian. [As Charley goes toward her] No, no. 



32 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

I'm all right. Pain here. [She touches her heart.] 
That's all. 

Agnes. [Aside to Charley] She's a dreadful 
cough. I'm always afraid Winnie'll catch it. 

Marian [hears and smiles]. Good-night, Charley. 
Agnes [kisses him]. Shall I light your lamp? 
Charley. No, thanks. [To Marian] Good-bye, 
dear. 

[As he takes her hands, re-enter Winifred 
right, in her mackintosh. Marian tries to 
withdraw her hands, but he prevents her.] 

Agnes. Why, child! Wherever are you going? 
Winifred. To see Charley oflf. 
Agnes. Well, I never. 

Winifred. [Crossing to door up left] You'd better 
hurry up. Not much time. It's all right, Mother. 
Shan't be late. 

Marian. Good-bye, Charley. Don't forget. 

[They embrace. He breaks away, puts on his 
cap, and goes above table centre. She 
stretches her arms after him. Agnes and 
Winifred watch. He feels her agony and, 
turning quickly, strains her to him. There is 
a pause. Suddenly Winifred pulls the door 
open violently. The horse-shoe, tearing out 
from its nail, clangs to the floor. Agnes gasps 
in superstitious horror. Winifred kicks it 
contemptuously out into the street.] 
Winifred. Jolly good job. P'r'aps the luck'll 
change now. [To Charley] Come on. 

[He releases Marian, turns abruptly, and fol- 
lows Winifred out up left. Agnes goes to 
the door. Marian, till now motionless, col- 
lapses in the arm-chair right. The lamp 
flickers. The room grows perceptibly darker.] 



WASTE 33 

Agnes. [Examining the lamp] The oil's giving out. 
I hope Winnie'll hurry back. [She looks at Marian 
and perceives that her daughter wishes to be alone. 
Agnes goes right.] Anything I can do for you, dear? 

Marian. [Slowly] When Winnie comes in, tell her 
to keep away from me. 

Agnes. [Innocently] Yes. Your cough is bad to- 
night. She must be careful. 

[Exit Agnes right.] 

[Marian waits till the door is closed, then takes 
a deep breath. She begins to gasp deep, 
heart-breaking sobs. She bends forward, 
lifting the poker and raking out the ashes of 
the fire. A terrific gust of wind shakes the 
house. She drops the poker and leans back 
in the chair. Tears run down her cheeks. 
Her sobs become uncontrollable. The lamp, 
which has been continually flickering, goes 
out.] 

THE curtain falls 



THE WAR FLY 



CHARACTERS 

The Diner-Out 
The Other Man 
The Waiter 

Time: The present. 

Scene: A private dining-room in a London hotel. 



THE WAR FLY 



It is a chilly October evening in the year ipi^. The 
dining-room has two large French windows open- 
ing on to a balcony. These occupy practically the 
entire length of the black wall. The blinds are 
not drawn, but the curtains successfully veil any 
illumination from, the room that might otherwise 
escape. The lights of London are shaded, on ac- 
count of the Zeppelin raids, and the stars shine 
palely through a thin mist. There is no moon nor 
any glare from the streets below. Fitful 
flashes from powerful searchlights occasionally 
sweep the sky, lighting up the room within. 
There is a red glow from, the fire left, and 
the shaded chandelier, hung low, sends out a circle 
of light sufficient to illumine the faces of the 
diners. Outside of this small circle, the room is 
in comparative darkness. The floor is heavily 
carpeted, the walls are panelled, and the furnish- 
ings are expensively luxurious. A door stands 
down right and above it a sideboard. In the cor- 
ner up right is a screen, from behind which the 
dinner has been served. Two chairs stand, one 
on each side of the window, and a third and fourth 
down right and down left. The table, centre, has 
been laid for tzvo, but the meal is now practically 
finished. The table decorations have been re- 
moved to the sideboard. The clock over the side- 
board points to p.^o p. m. 
[37] 



38 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

As the curtain rises, the Diner-Out (D. O.) and the 
Other Man (O. M.) are discovered at the table, 
centre. The D. O. is about 35 years of age and 
clad in the uniform of an English Army Captain. 
He wears a tooth-brush moustache, and has a 
bronzed and pleasant, if somewhat stern, coun- 
tenance. The O. M. is of indeterminate middle- 
age. His hair is tinged with grey, and his clean- 
shaven face is pale and deeply lined. His eyes 
are large and arresting. He is attired in fault- 
less evening dress. The Waiter is an elderly 
man of sixty-five. The Waiter replenishes the 
glasses, removes the last course, and brings the 
finger-bowls. 

Waiter. Coffee, sir? 

O. M. And cigars. 

[The Waiter goes behind the screen up right.] 

[To D. 0.] Shall we have liqueurs? 

D. O. I think so, yes. 

O. M. Any preference? 

D. O. Not the slightest. What ever you say. 

O. M. You flatter me! 

D. O. Not at all. On the contrary, your choice 
has been so excellent throughout, that I shouldn't care 
to risk spoiling things at the end, 

[They drain their wine glasses. The Waiter 
returns with the coffee, which he serves.] 

Waiter. What cigars, gentlemen? 

[O. M. looks at D. O.] 

D. O. Corona. 

O. M. Same. And liqueurs. 

Waiter. Yes, sir. What choice, sir? 

O. M. B. B. special. 

Waiter. Very good, sir [Exit right.] 

D. O. B. B. special, eh? Sounds good. 



THE WAR FLY 39 

O. M. I can recommend it very highly. 

[They sip their coffee.] 
D. O. You dine here often? 
O. M. Quite frequently. Why? 
D. O. I don't seem to remember this waiter. How 
long has he been here? 

O. M. I really couldn't say. We'll ask him when 
he comes back. 

D. O. [Reminiscently] I used to know every soul 
in the place. 

[There is a pause.] 
O. M. I take it you're not sorry we dined to- 
gether? 

D. O. Sorry? No. Distinctly the reverse. It's 
been a delightful evening. One doesn't get grub like 
this in the trenches, you know. 

O. M. Hardly, I suppose. It's not bad tack here. 
[They finish their coffee. The searchlights 
flash. ] 

You seemed determined to dine alone, Cap- 
How did you come to pick out this room? 

[Re-enter Waiter with box of cigars.] 
[After a pause] Well, that's something of a 

A story, eh? That sounds exciting. 
I'm sorry to disappoint you. It's an ex- 
ceptionally dull one. 

[The Waiter hands box to D. O.] 
O. M. I wonder. 

Waiter. We had to send out for the liqueur, sir. 
Won't be long. [He holds box to O. M.] 

O. M. [To D. O.] Shall we wait or change the 
order? 

D. O. I prefer to wait, if it's all the same to you. 
[The Waiter strikes a match for him.] I'm anxious 



0. 

tain. 


M. 
H 


D. 


0. 


story 
0. 


M. 


D. 


0. 



40 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

to try this B. B. special. [The W^aiter grins.] [Light- 
ing it] It's good, eh? Well, you ought to know. [The 
Waiter holds match for O. M.] By the way, we were 
just talking about you. 

Waiter. About me, sir? 

O. M. [Puffing at cigar] I've an impression that 
I've seen you somewhere before. 

D. O. I don't seem to remember you, 

O. M. Weren't you at the Claridge? 

Waiter. Yes, sir. It'll be ten years next Christ- 
mas since I first went to the Claridge. More than 'alf 
the staff 'ad to go, sir. It's the war, of course. I've 
been 'ere just three months, but business is pretty bad 
'ere too. 

D. O. I s'pose so. 

Waiter. Of course we depend entirely on tips, 
gentlemen, and I've 'ardly made enough for smokes. 
That's why I'm leaving. Like my luck, business buck- 
ing up the very last night. 

O. M. Last night, eh? Got another job? 

Waiter. Yes, sir. I'm going to do my bit. 

D. O. Good Lord, man. You're too old, surely? 

Waiter. For the trenches, yes, sir. But not to 
'ave a shot at this 'ere munition makin'. 

D. O. Good for you. 

Waiter. Thank you, sir. I feel as 'ow I ought to 
be doin' something for my country. 

O. M. It's time you were doing something about 
those liqueurs. 

Waiter. Don't 'ardly think they'll 'ave 'ad time to 
get 'ere yet, sir. 

[There is a sound as of guns.] 

D. O. Hullo. What's that? 

Waiter. [Edging up to window] Sounds like guns, 
sir. 

[The searchlights flash.] 



THE WAR FLY 41 

D. O. D'you think there's any chance of a "Zep," 
to-night ? 

Waiter. Can't say as I do, sir. It's 'ardly dark 
enough for a regular raid. Only a very slight mist, to- 
night, sir. [He goes right] I'll just see about those 
drinks, gentlemen. 

[Exit right.] 

D. O. Queer old card. Isn't he? 

O. M. Very. You were saying something about a 
story when he interrupted us. 

D. O. A story? 

O. M. Yes. That exceptionally dull narrative of 
yours. 

D. O. Oh. About my wanting to dine here alone? 

O. M. Exactly. 

D. O. Well, it's bound to seem stupid to you. With 
only forty-eight hours' leave from the front, to want 
to spend my one night at home like this? 

O. M. I should say interesting rather than stupid. 

D. O. Well. It's what I came over for. And I'd 
have done it too if you hadn't bagged the room. You 
see, I always dine here. 

O. M. Alone? 

D. O. Alone. I was furious when you wouldn't 
give it up. I'm afraid I was abominably rude into the 
bargain. 

O. M. You certainly seemed to regard it as a mat- 
ter of some importance. I'm not usually so curious 
. . . but . . . 

D. O. Oh, I don't mind telling you. As a matter 
of fact, I'm rather glad. It'll do me good to get it ofif 
my chest. Strange . . . our meeting like this. Good 
job for me your guest failed you. 

O. M. [Laughing]My guest? That was a little 
subterfuge to induce you to accept my invitation more 



42 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

readily. I was only too glad of your company. 
Otherwise, / should have feasted in solitude. 

D. O. Really. Well, I hope you don't regret it. 
It's hell being lonely, isn't it? 

O. M. [After a pause] It is, just that. Hell. 

D. O. Are you alone much? 

O. M. Always. 

D. O. Then you'll understand my story. My peo- 
ple are all dead, so I've been pretty much alone, and, 
altogether I've had rather a rotten time. I've a natural 
desire for companionship, and this has brought me a 
few friends, chiefly among women. Finally, however, 
I was led into a . . . well ... an intimacy that I 
mistook for love. It's taken me seven years to find 
out the difference between love and passion. 

O. M. You're lucky to have found it out at all. 

D. O. I suppose I am. Seven years ago tonight I 
sat here in this very room, with . . . the name doesn't 
matter. I'd been more than merely in love with her 
for months. But I wasn't satisfied. I wanted to 
marry her. I was mad to possess her utterly . . . 
to keep her for myself . . . always. So ... I pro- 
posed. She turned me down . . . flat. I'd been de- 
ceiving myself all along. It served me right. I dare- 
say lots of women would say I treated them the same. 
But now the tables were turned. I was hurt — hurt more 
than I thought possible. She'd simple been playing 
at love . . for the sake of the dinners . . the dances 
. . and all the rest of it. Love? She didn't know the 
first thing about that. You should have heard her 
laugh. Oh, it's ancient history. It sounds ridiculous 
to an old hand like you. But I was a youngster then 
and those things hurt . . Instead of trying to forget, I 
let it rankle. As a sop to my silly sentiment I made a 
vow. That wretched dinner and its memories become 
an annual affair. Once every year on that same day 



THE WAR FLY 43 

I've come back here to dine . . . alone with the phan- 
tom of the girl who gave me everything but love. I've 
kept my vow for seven years. Tonight is the seventh 
time. And it's the last. 

O. M. The last? 

D. O. Yes. The last. I'm cured. I couldn't have 
told you. I couldn't have sat with you and shared 
your meal . . . if I cared any more. 

O. M. You must have been hard hit, I suppose 
you had some sort of an idea that she'd turn up again 
one of these nights, eh? 

D. O. I hardly know what I expected. I do know 
that I worked myself into a chronic state of self pity 
that gave me a lot of morbid pleasure. And it lasted, 
mind you. Right up to this morning when I landed. 
Somehow I've felt different since I've seen Old Eng- 
land again. 

O. M. Everyone feels some sort of change, I sup- 
pose. 

D. O. We're all less petty and selfish, for one thing. 
The war's responsible for that much good, anyway. 

O. M. Out of evil, you know. 

[The searchlight's flash. The Waiter enters 
with liqueur glasses and bottle.] 
Ah, here we are. 

D. O. [To Waiter] Any excitement tonight? 

Waiter. [Busy at table] Not yet, sir. They're on 
the lookout, though. Doesn't do to take any chances. 

D. O. By Jingo, I would like to see them get a 
"Zep." Damn good fun, what? 

Waiter. Yes, sir. These 'ere Zepperlines are very 
entertainin' . . . very. Sorry you can't have more 
light in 'ere. 'Gainst the regulations. Very strict 
now, sir. 

D. O. Well, here's hoping . . . [They drink.] 
By Jove, that's great stuff. I must get some of this. 



44 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

O. M. Glad you like it. 

[The sound of guns is repeated.] 
D. O. Surely that's guns this time? 
O. M. Shall we go to the balcony? 
D. O. Might as well have a look out, yes. 
O. M. [To Waiter] Open the windows. 
Waiter. But the light, sir? 
O. M. Light be damned. Be quick about it. 

[The Waiter opens the windows wide. The 
men rise.] 
D. O. [Going up stage] When was the last raid? 
Waiter. The thirteenth, sir. 

D. O. Thirteenth, eh? No wonder they got a 
drubbing. [He steps on to the balcony. The flashes 
cease.] 

O. M. [Centre] See anything? 
D. O. Not a single solitary speck. 
O. M. Must have been a false alarm. 
D. O. You come and have a look. 

[The O. M. steps out. Immediately flashes are 
renewed. The Waiter, grinning, comes 
down to table, pours himself a drink and 
swallows it. The flashes gradually cease. 
The men re-enter.] 
Waiter. Shall I close the windows, sir? 
O. M. [Sitting] No. Leave them as they are. 
Fill up again and bring me the bill. 

D. O. [Sitting reluctantly] By Gad, I'd like to see 
those anti-aircraft guns in action. 
O. M. You haven't missed much. 

[The Waiter presents the bill.] 
D. O. I say, you must let me split this. 
O. M. [Paying zvith notes] Not at all. You ac- 
cepted my invitation, remember. [To Waiter] Will 
that cover it? 



THE WAR FLY 45 

Waiter. Quite, sir. 

O. M. You can keep the change. 

Waiter. Thank you, sir. 

O. M. You needn't wait any longer. We'll prob- 
ably be gone by ten. [To D. O.] Does that suit you? 
[The D. O. nods.] Right. Come back then. 

D. O. [Giving Waiter a coin] Shan't see you 
again, then. Hope you'll like your new job. 

Waiter. Thank you, sir. Good luck to you, sir. 
[He goes right.] Good night, gentlemen. 

[Exit right.] 

D. O. Exit waiter. Enter munition maker. It's 
remarkable how these fellows adapt themselves to con- 
ditions. [Drinks.] 

O. M. Man is an adaptable animal. Not the habit- 
bound creature people would have us believe. The war 
is proving that. 

D. O. It certainly is. [He drains his glass, rises, 
and pushing back his chair, crosses to the fire-place.] 
By Jove, that's the most extraordinary drink. 

O. M. You must let me send you a bottle. 

D. O. It's awfully good of you. I should like very 
much to know where one can buy it I could hardly 
accept . . . 

O. M. [Interrupting] Nonsense. 

D. O. Really, sir, our acquaintance is so slight. 

{The fire-light shines directly on the O. M.'s 
face. Throughout the remainder of the scene 
he plays in this red spot-light.] 

O. M. A flimsy excuse, my dear Captain. Come, 
the days of convention are over. Life is too short. 

D. O. Of course, if you insist. 

O. M. I do. You must cultivate this adaptability 
of which we were speaking. It was given us for a 



46 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

purpose. Don't repress your generous feelings . . . 
encourage them. 

D. O. You're right. It is a fault of mine. You're 
the first man I've ever really opened up with. It isn't 
difficult, somehow, with you. You're a true Bohemian. 
It isn't natural with me. Bohemians are born, not 
made. 

O. M. And yet I acted like an old-fashioned con- 
ventionalist just now. I had the temerity to pry into 
your affairs. 

D. O. Only after I had unnecessarily provoked 
your curiosity. [He paces to and fro.] I think you're 
right about convention. Religion'U be the next to go, 
I suppose, 

O. M. ReHgion? 

D. O. I believe so. 

O. M. Do you mean to infer that religion will cease 
to exist? 

D. O. Perhaps I should have said "change." I 
believe that religion is about to undergo a very ma- 
terial change. 

O. M. In theory, or in practise? 

D. O. In practise . . . chiefly. 

O. M. And do you expect this great change to 
affect all religions, or your own in particular? 

D. O. I'm afraid I hadn't thought out the matter 
so deeply. I had reference to Christianity. I really 
haven't a religion of my own. 

O. M. Christianity? Yes, Christianity will change. 

D. O. I was foolish enough to forget that Chris- 
tianity is only one of many religions. 

O. M. The mistake is common. Nowhere is ego- 
ism more colossal, nowhere will you find ignorance 
more rife than among our friends the theo- 
logians. [There is a moment's silence.] So you have 
no leanings toward any particular doctrine? 



THE WAR FLY 47 

D. O. Not at present. 

O. M. But you must have some belief? 

D. O. Of a kind . . . yes. Negative rather than 
positive. 

O. M. May I ask you to be more exphcit? 

D. O. Well, I'm a sort of a modern doubting 
Thomas. I want to be sure. I want to know, 

O. M. One never knows . . . till it's too late. 

D. O. That's just it. It's the uncertainty of life 
that worries me. It's just that which makes things so 
hellish , . . out there. Some fellows never seem to 
think about anything. Take a night attack. I tell you 
the suspense is unbearable. We don't so much mind 
the actual fighting. It's not that which drives men 
mad. It's the waiting . . . the damned waiting . . . 
Well, it's something like that with religion . . only of 
course not so keen. I've too much imagination ... I 
lack the simple faith necessary to help me over the bad 
places. 

O. M. Faith? In what? 

D. O. Oh . . . the Bible . . . miracles ... all 
that sort of thing. 

O. M. Few persons nowadays take the Bible 
literally. 

D. O. Few? How about the "angels at Mons"? 

O. M. Press stuff. 

D. O. Precisely. Press stuff. Same in the Bible. 
All this miracle business is rot . . .tommy- rot, with a 
capital R. [He pours himself another drink.] I be- 
lieve that it can all be scientifically explained in a per- 
fectly practical manner. What can't be so explained 
is purely metaphorical. 

O. M. You're getting into deep water. How far 
does this dis-belief carry you? [After a pause] What 
do you believe in? 

D. O. I believe in a supreme being. 



48 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

O. M. Well, that's something to start from. Now 
. . . you've studied Christianity . . . tell me ... do 
you believe in Christ? 

D, O. As a man . . . yes. 

O. M. But you deny His divinity? 

D, O. I won't say I deny it. I simply can't credit 
it. 

O. M. Nevertheless a devout Christian will tell 
you that the whole fabric of his religion stands or falls 
on that very question. 

D. O. That's precisely my difficulty. 

O. M. You're in a bad way. [Suddenly and ac- 
cusatively] How about the personality of the Devil? 
Do you deny that? 

D. O. Eh? Oh, of course that's ridiculous . . . 
utterly ridiculous. 

O. M. You think so? 

D. O. Why, of course. No sane person believes 
in the Devil . . . the cloven hoof . . . hell . . . and 
all that tosh. 

O. M. [Sardonically] No? 

D. O. You don't mean to say you do? [He comes 
to the table.] Look here. Never mind me. What's 
your notion of these things? I should imagine you'd 
be the sort of chap to have rather original ideas on 
such matters. 

O. M. [Laughing] Original? I believe in every- 
thing. 

D. O. [Taking another drink] What? 

O. M. Perhaps I'd better put it in this way. I dis- 
believe nothing until positive proof is forthcoming, 
one way or another. 

D. O. Are you sincere? 

O. M. Absolutely. That indeed is the key to the 
whole question — Sincerity. The sincerity of the in- 
dividual. Every man who is thoroughly sincere, no 



THE WAR FLY 49 

matter what his beHef, is right ... in the eyes of his 
Maker. 

D. O. That's a tremendous statement. 

O. M. I stake everything upon it. 

D. O. By gad, that certainly opens up the way for 
me. [He carries his drink to the fire.] 

O. M. To resume my argument. The personaUty 
of the Devil. If a man sincerely believes in the exist- 
ence of the Devil ... in the flesh . . . then . . . for 
that man, the Devil does exist ... in the flesh. 

D. O. For that man? Not for everybody? 

O. M. It depends entirely on the state of one's 
mind. I should say, however, that Satan exists for 
everybody . . . with imagination. 

D. O. Imagination? Is that all? No, I can't swal- 
low that. 

O. M. It does seem a little hard, I admit. 

D. O. You don't mean to say you have swallowed 
it? 

O. M. Why not? 

D. O. But it's incredible ! There's no argument in 
the world that would convince me. 

O. M. Sit down, while I tell you something. 

[The D. O. sits left of table, not interfering 
with the red spot on the O. M.'s face.] 
It all comes back to the same question of adaptability ; 
only in this instance it was more mental than physical. 
Two years ago I was in Central Africa, and there I met 
a man who was dying from the bite of a fly. 

D. O. Tsetse? 

O. M. Precisely. The tsetse fly. He was an 
Englishman ... a Government surveyor. A thorough- 
ly practical, sane man — the typical clean-living, sober 
civil engineer. Yet this man was positive that the Devil 
existed, not only in human form, but also in the shape 
of a fly. 



50 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

D. O. He must have been mad. Was that after 
the tsetse bit him? 

O. M. I beheve so. But his theory was so well 
thought out . . . the man so evidently sincere . . . 
that I for one could no longer doubt the truth of his 
statement. 

D. O. What was it? 

O. M. Are you sure you want to hear it? It's a 
gruesome enough tale. 

D. O. Go ahead. I've been in the trenches, you 
know. 

O. M. Let's have a drink, first. 

D. O. I won't go so far as to despise a stimulant. 

[The O. M. fills the glasses, and they drink. 
The liquor is beginning to tell on D. O.] 

O. M. The engineer's name was Johnson, He 
wasn't what you'd call a religious chap, by any means, 
but, although he hadn't read his Bible for years, he 
remembered that Satan was called Beelzebub ... or 
Prince of Flies. 

D. O. Prince of Flies? 

O. M. Prince of Flies. Well after his ex- 
perience with the tsetse, an idea began to develop in 
his brain until he became obsessed with the notion 
that the Devil actually existed in the shape of a gigan- 
tic fly. 

D. O. The result of the disease, of course. Did he 
see this mammoth insect? 

O. M. That brings me to his story. It seems that 
one night he was roused from sleep by the sound of a 
steady and persistent buzzing. It came nearer . . . 
nearer . . . sinking slowly to a drone, and stopping 
close to his side. Gradually he became aware of two 
huge green eyes staring at him from the darkness, 
and presently he made out the complete body of an 



THE WAR FLY 51 

enormous fly. He was too horrified to breathe at first, 
but soon he managed to gain control of himself. The 
fly itself seemed to be trying to re-assure him. He 
began to understand its buzzings. It was calling to 
the creature that had bitten him, commanding it to 
appear before its Master. Then Johnson realized what 
it was. It was Beelzebub . . . the Prince of Flies. 
He was actually in the presence of the Arch Fiend 
Himself. 

D. O. Good Heavens. What then? 

O. M. The Devil spoke to him. From what John- 
son told me they must have had quite a long conversa- 
tion. 

D. O. Poor wretch! Delirious, of course. What 
did the Devil say? 

O. M. It seems that God has set the Devil-fly an 
endless task. He must consume every member of his 
race. Until this fly has eaten all its fellows, it can- 
not permanently retain its human shape. 

D. O. Eat all the flies. Ugh. The Devil does 
exist as a man then? 

O. M. So Johnson said. But that wasn't all. The 
whimsical part is to come. Each wretched victim, 
whether common house-fly, loathesome blue-bottle, or 
deadly tsetse, has to recite its miserable history into 
the ears of the waiting monster. Think what torture 
that must be for Satan . . . once the highest of the 
angels . . . proud Lucifer . . . the Prince of Dark- 
ness . . . condemned to assume the form of that most 
filthy of insects . . . the fly ! To be called Prince of 
Flies. And, as if his brain were not already over- 
burdened with the sins of humanity . . . to be com- 
pelled to listen to the nauseating tales of these buz- 
zing scavengers. Finally ... to eat them. Poor 
helpless cannibal. Can you imagine a more exquisite 
form of punishment? 



52 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

D. O. It is a bit thick, isn't it? Neither you nor 
Johnson lacks imagination. Ugh ! Horrible ! [He 
drinks again. The searchlights flash.] His Satanic 
Majesty would hear some rummy tales, what? Won- 
der what the tsetse told him? 

O. M. Or the poisonous flies that laid their eggs 
in the mouths and nostrils of the convicts at Cayenne? 
God ! What a story ! 

■D. O. [starting] What's that? 

O. M. A moth, I expect. 

The D. O. goes up to the curtains and shakes 
them. 

D. O. Ugh. Beastly things . . . moths. 

O. M. Not so bad as flies. 

D. O. [coming back to his chair] I've read some- 
where that moths are the souls of wronged women. 

O. M. [with a sardonic laugh] Who's being imag- 
inative, now? 

D. O. [sitting] This beastly fly business has got on 
my nerves. 

O. M. Have another drink? 

He pours him the last drop. The searchlights 
flash. 

D. O. [after draining glass] We have flies in the 
trenches, you know. Look, there's one now. 

A fly settles on the cloth. Throughout the 

whole of his speech, the O. M. makes it 

evident that the insect is telling him the 

story.] 

O. M. So there is. A war fly, too! Listen to his 

story. This little fly has come from the trenches. 

Perhaps he crossed this morning on the very same boat 

as you. He was born in that little farmhouse you 

know so well, that lies just behind the lines. The rest 

house . . . you remember? 



THE WAR FLY 53 

D. O. [Dazedly] What do you know about it? 

O. M. It's only a story. Happy little fly ... so 
near and yet so far from the horrors of war; secure in 
the nice, cool kitchen, where la belle . Marguerite 
churned the milk into butter . . . while Jacques, her 
soldier sweetheart, sat beside. Smoking his little cigar- 
ette, and talking of the future . . . the glorious future 
. . . for they were to be wed, when the cruel war was 
over. Brave Jacques . . . lucky Jacques, to be fight- 
ing so near his pretty sweetheart. And the fly buzzed 
merrily as they flirted so harmlessly. For, while 
Jacques sipped the honey of Marguerite's lips, my lit- 
tle fly lit on her beautiful round arm and crawled up to 
the frothy white ring made by the curdling butter-milk 
as she churned it in the tub. What a pretty story he 
would have to tell his Master, Beelzebub, when the 
time came for him to die. The Prince of Flies would 
smack his lips as he devoured him . . .^ sweet with the 
taste of the fresh, cool buttermilk. 

D. O. [Drunkenly] Good. Good. 

O. M. So, when, only last Sunday, our gallant 
Jacques returned to the firing-line ; our little fly went 
with him, for company. Alas, pauvre Marguerite. If 
only she could have gone too. Ah, how cruel is war! 
How she wished then that she were a fly, to sit in the 
cap of her brave soldier-boy. So our little fly took 
pity on her and promised to come back to 
her kitchen every morning to tell her how 
things fared with Jacques. Behold then, next 
morning, very early, back he came! Buzzing 
gaily round the kitchen, and Marguerite . . . 
sang . . . for the news he brought was good. Jacques 
was safe . . . Jacques was well. More than that, 
Jacques had shot two Germans, and captured a third 
at the risk of his life. How proud she was ! Was he 
not a hero? Was he not to receive a decoration. 



54 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

for gallantry ? Good news indeed. And away buzzed 
my little fly, back to the trenches . . . bearing the 
honey from the warm, moist lips of la belle Marguerite 
... to the fevered mouth of her soldier-lover. 

D. O. You're a regular poet ! 

O. M. Softly! I must hear all he says. Do not dis- 
turb my little fly. But, yesterday, this fly . . . this war 
fly, came staggering blindly into the kitchen, and hung, 
dripping, over the butter-tub. He buzzed so feebly 
that Marguerite thought some accident had befallen 
him on the way. Surely his wings were damaged? 
She drew closer to see. His long, thin Httle legs were 
sticking to his body, which was dripping . . . drip- 
ping . . . slow, thick, red drops of . . . blood . . . 
blood . . . my fly . . . red with blood . . . 
drunk with blood. Saturated . . . sated . . . with 
it, and red . . . redder than the fires of hell. 
And Marguerite trembled and said: "Little fly, 
if indeed you are my little fly, how is my Jacques to- 
day?" And the fly chuckled, horribly, thickly: 
"Jacques . . . your Jacques? He is no more . . . 
your Jacques." "But," said Marguerite, "I do not un- 
derstand. What have you done with him? And why 
are you so red?" And my little fly laughed again as he 
answered: "Red? . . . red? . . . I am red with blood ; 
the bloo3 of what was once your brave . . . your gal- 
lant Jacques. Early this morning as you rubbed your 
sleepy eyes, a great big fly came humming through the 
air . . . and Jacques . . . poor fool . . . tried to stop 
it. Bah, he could not stop this fly. Z-u-u-u . . . tt ! 
He fell . . . some of him . . . and lay there ; all blood 
and brain. Squashed ... on the rotten corpses of 
his comrades . . . squashed as I have seen him squash 
my brothers and sisters . . . many a time. And then 
. . . then I knew what it was that I had waited for so 
long. It was blood . . . not cool insipid buttermilk 



THE WAR FLY 55 

. . . but red, warm, salt and pungent blood. My 
Master Beelzebub will smile as I tell him of this . . . 
no sickly tale of sentiment, but one of war ... of 
red . . . red war ! I am no longer a common house- 
fly ... I am a war-fly . . . and war-flies feed on 
blood. Fresh blood . . . stale blood . . . fresh flesh 
. . . putrefying flesh . . . any flesh . . . so it be 
flesh of man. Ah, what a tale for my master! I am 
a war fly ! . . .a war fly ! ! . . .a WAR FLY ! ! ! 

[The D. O. smashes his hand down on the fly, 
killing it. The O. M. leans hack in his chair, 
sighing relievedly. ] 

D. O. [Rising, aghast] Who are you? What are 
you? 

O. M. [Picking up fly and dropping it into his 
finger-howl] One tale less for the Devil to hear. 

[The D. O. watches, fascinated. The O. M. 
raises the bowl in his hands. The fire-light 
turns the water into hlood. The howl reaches 
his lips. All the lights go out. There is 
heard in the far distance a humming, hushing 
sound. It grows louder. The searchlights 
hegin to flash. There is a sound of guns. 
The searchlights concentrate on one spot. 
The huzzing hecomes terrific in volume. The 
searchlights flicker. The huzzing and the 
guns grow fainter. The lights go up. The 
O. M. has disappeared. The D. O. sobered, 
leans over and picks up the finger-howl. The 
sounds cease. The bowl is empty. He 
slowly places it on the table. The search- 
lights cease. There is a dead silence. The 
D. O.'s teeth chatter. He is unable to move 
anything, hut his eyes. Suddenly these fix 
themselves on the door-knob. He moves 



S6 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

slightly in that direction. One feels that he 
dare not look behind. Slowly, noiselessly, he 
creeps to the door. As his hand touches the 
knob, he gives a slight gasp of relief. His 
hands, wet with the sweat of fear, slip on the 
handle. At last the door gives, and he stag- 
gers out, leaving it open behind him. The 
searchlights flash.] 

THE CURTAIN FALLS 



Note to Stage Directors — It is of great import- 
ance that the actor playing the role of the O. M. should 
not be seen by the audience after the black-out. If, 
however, circumstances demand that he should take a 
curtain call, it is still more important that he should 
enter for that purpose from the door right and from 
no other part of the stage. The violation of the 
first rule will mitigate largely against the mystical 
effect of the play ; but the violation of the second will 
absolutely destroy any such effect, and must, at all 
costs, be avoided. 



FOR KING AND COUNTRY 



CHARACTERS 

John Foster, a village grocer. 
Mary Foster, his wife. 

„ ' > their sons. 
Harry, ) 

Laura West, a neighbor's daughter. 

Time: The present. 

Scene: The living room of John Foster's shop in the 
village of Thirlmere, England. 



FOR KING AND COUNTRY 



The scene is the living-room adjoining the shop of 
John Foster, grocer, in the village of Thirlmere, 
England. It is seven o'clock in the evening of a 
warm day in the latter part of May, 191 5. The 
room is in semi-darkness. Down to the right is 
the fireplace, and on its red-covered mantelpiece 
stands a small oil lamp, with a tin shade, throwing 
a feeble light half-way across the room. An open 
door up to the right leads to the kitchen, from 
which a faint light issues. A slightly stronger 
and more ruddy glow comes from the door op- 
posite {up to the left] leading to the shop, which 
is now lit by the setting sun. There are no win- 
dows visible, the remaining light coming from the 
foots, which are checked low. The floor is cov- 
ered with a good but ancient carpet of indistin- 
guishable pattern. The ceiling is low, with two 
broad beams worn and worm-eaten, projecting 
some twelve inches below the cracked plaster, and 
stretching from wall to wall, lengthwise to the 
audience. The walls are papered with a faded 
rose pattern from floor to ceiling, without picture- 
rail or frieze. A rag rug covers the hearth, and 
around the grate is a brass fender furnished with 
brass-handled fire-irons. The grate is hidden by 
a small screen. The mantelpiece holds, in ad- 
dition to the lamp above mentioned, an 
[59] 



6o THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

ornamental china clock, a match-stand, two large 
sea shells, and one or two small photographs. 
Over the clock hangs a large picture of the fam- 
ily, at either side of which are two illuminated 
texts, hearing the inscriptions, "GOD IS OUR 
REFUGE AND STRENGTH," and "GOD IS 
LOVE." A chair stands down to the right 
against the wall, and above it is a large portrait 
of Queen Victoria. A calender hangs at one side 
of the fireplace, and above the door up right is a 
stuffed weasel in a glass case. Another chair 
stands in the corner against the back wall, and 
next to it is a plain hut handsome sideboard, 
plentifully stocked tvith old blue china; then 
another chair, a grandfather clock, and finally, 
a door leading, presumably, to the bedrooms 
above. Over these two chairs are two war post- 
ers of somewhat lurid design. One hears the 
words "Your King and country need you" and 
the picture of a brilliantly uniformed and dashing 
figure on a restive steed. The other is a design 
of a more sombre and less fictitious nature. It 
depicts a stricken soldier lying in a wrecked 
cathedral, his eyes riveted to the figure on the 
Cross, miraculously uninjured. A blue china 
stand filled with bullrushes is in the corner up 
left, and just below this a door, opening outwards, 
leads to the shop. Above the door is a stuffed 
owl. Against the wall to the centre is a wicker 
. work-table on which are photo and picture post- 
card albums. The family Bible occupies the shelf 
below. On the wall above is a fine old sampler, 
and down left stands an upholstered couch with 
headed cushions. A large framed portrait of Mr. 
Gladstone and a print of King George V. occupy 
prominent positions, while pictures of Kitchener, 



FOR KING AND COUNTRY 6i 

Jojfre, etc., cut from newspapers, adorn other 
parts of the walls, and the sides of the dresser. 
In the centre of the room is a round mahogany 
three-legged table covered with a dull red cloth. 
In its centre is a mat and upon this rests a large 
howl of white lilac. An armchair stands right 
centre, and two horse-hair chairs are set one on 
each side of the table. 
At the rise of the curtain Mary Foster is discovered, 
seated in the armchair right centre She is a 
white-haired old lady of some seventy years. She 
wears an old black dress. Around her shoulders 
is wrapped a white woolen shawl. Upon her head 
is a little lace cap and her feet are encased in 
white felt slippers. She wears spectacles and 
shows evidences of failing sight. She is carefully 
knitting away at a thick gray muffler, and now 
and again fumbles with a dropped stitch. She 
sighs, and, placing her work in her lap, proceeds 
to wipe her tired eyes and to polish her spectacles. 
This done, she resumes her work just as her hus- 
band, John Foster, enters up right from the 
kitchen. He is a tall, handsome, old man between 
seventy and eighty years of age, very hale, but 
grave with the weight of his years, and the sad- 
ness of the times. His face is stern and deeply 
lined. The mouth is firmly set, but the eyes are 
kind and wrinkled with the laughter of happier 
years. His hair is white and fluffy with a large 
bald spot in the centre. He is clean-shaven, but 
on his chin and upper lip is a zvhite and bristly 
growth indicating the near approach of the weekly 
rite. He is in his shirt sleeves, and his open vest 
exposes the front of his gray flannel shirt. The 
vest is completely unbuttoned, but linked by a 
massive gold watch chain. His spectacles pro- 



62 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

trude from an upper pocket. His trousers are 
old and baggy at the knees. His feet are shod with 
thick gray socks and carpet slippers. An unlit 
pipe is in his mouth, and he carries in his hands 
a large oil lamp, lit, which he proceeds to place 
in the centre of the table. 

John. There, I reckon as how that'll be a bit bet- 
ter for you, Mary. . . {He takes the howl of lilac and 
places it in the centre of the sideboard.] 

Mary. Thank you, John. [She knits a few 
stitches.] Yes, it's much better, now. 

[John feels in his vest pockets for a match, 
and, failing to find one, crosses to the man- 
telpiece and takes a handful from the box, 
placing them in his pockets.] 

John. [Looking over her shoulder] You shouldn't 
try your eyes so, Mary. I'm sure you must be tired. 
{Comes right centre.] Why don't you rest awhile? 
[Strikes match and tries to light pipe.] 

Mary. I want to finish it in time for Harry's birth- 
day. It's little we can do for our baby, John, but 
maybe it'll mean a lot to him. 

John. [Picking up the end of the muffler and 
examining it] Yes, I reckon it will. [He sits right 
centre by the table and strikes another match.] What 
. . . what is it you're making him, Mother? 

Mary. [Smiling] It's to go round his neck. Jack 
says it's terrible cold in those trenches, especially at 
night. 

John. [Puffing at his pipe] It must be. Terrible 
cold. Jack ought to know, poor lad. Thank God 
he'll never see a trench again. 

Mary. How has he been today, Father? 

John. Jack? Well, he's too quiet to please me. 
He's takin' things mighty hard, mighty hard. 



FOR KING AND COUNTRY 63 

Mary. He always did, poor boy, though lots of 
folks think that he isn't a bit sensitive. He's very 
brave about it, John. It's a terrible affliction. I can't 
realize that he'll never be able to see anything again. 
Blind ! Oh, John ! It must be awful to be blind ! My 
old eyes are getting a bit dim. That seems hard enough 
What must it be for him? 

John. [Rising and going up centre] Aye, it's a bad 
business ... a bad business ! We must just trust in 
the Lord. He has never failed us yet, Mother, re- 
member that. [He turns to the centre poster.] For 
King and Country ! Well, he lost his sight in a good 
cause, a just and righteous cause. [Turns to the other 
poster.] He might have lost his life, too, for his King 
and Country . . . for his God. [He turns and comes 
above table centre.] I tell you I'm proud of him. 
Our boy, Mary. My son! I only wish / could have 
done the same. 

[His pipe has gone out. He stuffs it into one 
trousers pocket, and from the other pulls out 
a red handkerchief. He sits right centre and 
blows his nose vigorously.] 

Mary. I'm proud of our boys too. But it does 
seem a dreadful waste, a dreadful waste. If . . .if 
anything should happen to Harry ... I think my 
heart would break. 

John. [Rising and bending over her] There, there, 
we won't borrow trouble. The lad is in God's hands, 
like the rest of us. His will be done. [He pats her 
shoulder. ] 

Mary. [Placing her hand on his] His will be done. 

John. [Moving up centre] Well, I must see how 
Jack's getting along, Mother. He'll be takin' the shop 
off my hands yet. 

Mary. You might step outside and see if there's 



64 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

any sign of the postman. Maybe there's a letter from 
Harry, 
John. [At door] I will. Maybe there is, 

[Exit left.] 

[After a moment's pause Mary resumes her 
knitting. Presently the shop hell rings, in- 
dicating that John is looking for the postman. 
At the same instant a military hand is heard in 
the distance. It is playing "Tipperary." Af- 
ter a few bars Mary begins to cry silently. 
Her hands droop to her lap and the tears roll 
down her cheeks. As the band finishes the 
chorus she dries her eyes, and begins once 
more to knit. The chorus is repeated, the 
shop door closes with a bang and a clatter of 
the hell. The music ceases. Re-enter John 
left. He has his coat on one arm and a news- 
paper in his hand. ] 

John. [Coining left of table] Did you hear that? 

Mary. Yes. What band is it? 

John. [He places the paper on the table, puts on 
his coat, sits left and unfolds the newspaper.] It's 
come over from Bullford Camp for the meeting to- 
night. The big recruiting meeting. They want Jack 
to speak, I asked him just now if he was going, but 
he said 'No.' 

Mary. I'm glad he isn't. It might upset him again. 

John. Well, he'd be all right if it weren't for them 
busy bodies hanging around the shop. Gossipy old 
men and women who ain't got nothin' better to do 
but talk. Come in for a ha'porth o' baccy and stay 
for two or three hours, tellin' him about the war, 
pumpin' him for all they're worth till the poor boy 
nearly goes ofif his head! Why, he'd half promised to 
speak at the meetin'. Those tit-tatlers hadn't got at 



FOR KING AND COUNTRY 65 

him then. They're Uke flies around a piece of meat. 
No wonder he's upset ! It's more than the lad can 
stand after what he's been through. [He scans the 
paper and shakes his head-] ■ .1 doubt the lad won't go, 
and I can't blame him. 

Mary. I wish he hadn't promised. What does the 
paper say? Anything about our Jack? 

John. First of all, there's a lot of big type. 
[Reads] "Your King and Country need you. Join the 
colors now. Cowards wait for conscription. Be a 
Man. Enlist tonight and become a hero. God Save 
the King !" 

Mary. Is that all? 

John. Wait a bit. [Reads] "A grand recruiting 
meeting will be held tonight (Saturday) on the village 
green at 7.30 P. M. The band of the 21st Prov. Battal- 
ion will be in attendance and it is devoutly to be hoped 
that those men amongst us who have so far refrained, 
for whatsoever reason, from joining His Majesty's 
Forces will avail themselves of this opportunity to do 
so. Let us remember the words of Nelson, 'One 
volunteer is worth one hundred pressed men.' Major 
Tompkins will address the meeting, and our illust- 
trious townsman, the heroic Corporal John Foster, the 
elder son of a worthy local tradesman, has promised to 
shake the hand of every new recruit." Well, they'll be 
mighty disappointed if Jack doesn't go over. I'll have 
to read him this. It might make him change his mind. 
Mary. Read it to me again, will you, John? 
John. What, all of it? 
Mary. No, just that bit about Jack. 
John. [Reading] "Our illustrious townsman, the 
heroic Corporal John Foster, the elder son of a worthy 
local tradesman" . . . meaning me, Mary . . . "has 
promised to shake the hand of every new recruit." 



66 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

Mary. Illustrious townsman! Well, maybe there 
won't be any recruits. 

[The shop bell rings off left.] 

John. "Cowards wait for conscription." Well, 
Mary, we've nothing to reproach ourselves with. Our 
boys went willingly enough. 

Mary. Yes, dear. But look how they come back. 
Jack is blind, and Harry . . . 

John. Yes, Harry may be dead for all we know. 

[Takes a postcard from his pocket and reads it.] 

"Somewhere in France" . . . Somewhere in France. 
"I am well." [Pause] "Received the socks you sent 
me." [Pause.] "Love from Harry." [Replaces it 
in his pocket.] 

Mary. That's the only word from him for over 
three weeks. 

John. [Reading paper] "Your King and Country 
need you. Enlist tonight and become a hero." . . . 
a hero ! 

[Enter Jack left. He is a tall, well-built man 
of forty years, but looking considerably older. 
He is clad in civilian clothes with the excep- 
tion of his jacket, which is of military cut, 
bearing his corporal's stripe. He is totally 
blind, one eye being missing and the other 
half closed. He face is heavily marked by 
gunpowder. He stoops slightly and carries 
a stick in his right hand.] 
Jack. Dad, do you mind coming into the shop a 
minute? Mrs. Dawson wants a penn'orth of marga- 
rine, and I can't quite manage the scales. 

John. [Rising and leaving paper on table] Just 
thinking it was time you had a rest, Jack, though bus- 
iness isn't exactly brisk. You stay here and talk to 
Mother for a bit. 



FOR KING AND COUNTRY 67 

[Jack moves centre. John goes to door, 
turns, shakes his head sadly and exits left.] 

Jack. [Coming down right centre] Don't you 
move, Mother. I can find the way. It gets easier 
every time now. [He sits right centre.] Still knit- 
ting the muffler? 

Mary. Yes, dear. 

Jack. I can hear the needles. Wonderful how 
sharp my ears are getting. Didn't I hear Dad reading 
about the meeting tonight? 

Mary. Yes, dear. Are you going? 

Jack. I don't know. I might. Laura offered to 
walk over with me. 

Mary. Laura? That was nice of her. 

Jack. She went by this morning with the baby. 
She let me hold the little chap. Spoke about the meet- 
in'. Said she'd look in some time this evenin'. 

Mary. I'll be glad to see her. Are you goin' to the 
meetin' Jack? 

Jack. I don't know. I half promised to, but I'd 
get out of it if I could. 

Mary. The paper says that they're expecting you. 
[He makes no sign.] It's there by your side. [He 
takes the paper and holds it in his hands.] Shall I 
read what it says, dear? 

Jack. No, thank you, Mother. I don't think I'll 
go. 

Mary. But, Jackie ... it says you did promise. 
It says you promised to shake the hand of every new 
recruit. 

Jack. Does it ? I never did. That settles it. I'm 
not going. 

Mary. Why not, dear? 

Jack. Well, do you think I'm an encouraging sight 
for a new recruit ? 



68 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

[There is a long silence. Mary gives a stifled 
sob. She rises, and, going to her son, draws 
his head to her breast.] 
There, Mother, you mustn't take on so. It can't be 
helped. 

Mary. Oh, my boy! my boy! You're so brave 
and patient ... so brave and patient. [She goes back 
to her chair.] 

Jack. It's strange there's no more news of Harry. 

Mary. Did the postman go by? 

Jack. Yes, some time ago. He seems as anxious 
as we are. They all love young Harry, Mother . . . 
especially Laura. 

Mary. Poor Laura ! She's had a hard time. 

Jack. She has. It's an awful position for a nice 
girl like her. It hasn't been easy for you either. 
Mother. You might have been so different. 

Mary. I always try to help those in trouble, dear. 

Jack. Ah, Mother, that doesn't deceive me. 

Mary. I'm not trying to deceive you, my boy. I've 
always known that you loved Laura. 

Jack. Yes, but you know that isn't what I mean. 
It's the baby. Oh I I've got to say what's in my mind. 
Dad's got to know too. Don't you understand? Sup- 
posing Harry were to come home now ! The young 
fool's made a nice mess of things . . . 

Mary. Don't, Jack. You frighten me. You 
wouldn't hurt Harry. He's so . . . 

Jack. Good Lord, no. I shan't touch him. I'm 
not going to quarrel with my own brother. Laura 
loves him. He's won her right enough . . . least- 
ways, I think so. I don't believe he ever meant to get 
her into trouble. No, we shan't quarrel over that. 
But he's got to marry her, that's the point, and if he 
says he won't, by God, I'll make him ! 

Mary. But your father . . . ? 



FOR KING AND COUNTRY 69 

Jack. Dad'U be all right after he gets over the 
shock. He thinks a terrible lot of Harry. We'll find 
a chance to talk it over with Laura tonight. She must 
see how serious it'd be if Harry came home now . . . 
knowing nothing. 

Mary. She'll do what's right now, Jack. She's a 
brave girl. I've always loved her, and I'll be proud 
to have her for a daughter. It's a pity she couldn't 
have loved you. 

Jack. That's what / thought once. But I was 
wrong. Look at me now. Oh ! I'm not as brave and 
patient as you think. But it's my punishment. When 
I found that Laura loved Harry and wouldn't look at 
me, I cursed him. Yes, left home cursing him, in my 
heart. I cursed him all the time I was away. Even 
when the shell burst in my face I cursed him. But, 
when I awoke in the hospital and they told me that I 
should never see her again . . . then I knew the truth. 
Laura was never made for me . . . Laura couldn't 
marry a blind man. But I haven't mastered myself 
yet. I can't help hating him still ; though, please God, 
he'll never know it. He's always been the lucky one. 
He'll come home safe and sound to his sweetheart . . . 
and his son. His son ! Oh, I know they're not mar- 
ried yet. But it's a war-baby. That's no disgrace, 
nowadays. Besides, he loves her. But not as / would 
have loved her. I may be a bit old, but if I hadn't 
been blind, I'd have made her a better husband . . . 
by God, I would ! 

[His hands grip his knees in the effort to con- 
trol himself. He has torn the paper across. 
His mother goes to him, and places it on the 
table beyond his reach.] 

Mary. My poor lamb . . . my own dear boy ! 
Jack. I'm sorry. Mother. I just had to say it. 



70 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

I've had an awful day in the shop. People kept asking 
me questions . . . about the war . . . what I saw . . 
how men look when they're hit . . was I afraid? Was 
I afraid ! My God, was I afraid ! ! Why can't they 
leave me alone? I keep seeing things . . . dead men 
. . . horses . . . God, those horses . . . spouting 
blood. And the smell . . . Faugh ... I can't get the 
taste out of my mouth, or the sound out of my ears 
. . . roaring . . . roaring! . , . roaring!! [He 
covers his ears with his hands and groans aloud.] 

Mary. Don't, Jackie . . . don't. 

Jack. If only I could sleep. Mother, I'd be better. 
The nights . . . the nights are awful. And now . . . 
now it's always night, except when I sit outside and 
feel the warm sun on my face ... so warm . . . but 
then it gets hot . . . hot . . . and I think it's that 
shell bursting again . . . [He flings his head forward 
on his hands and writhes, his elbows on his knees.] 

[Enter John left.] 
[Mary signs to him to be mindful of Jack.] 

John. A penn'orth o' margarine! I don't see how 
we're going to make ends meet. [Coming left centre.] 
How much do you think we've taken today? [Sits left 
of table.] 

Mary. I don't know. A shilling? 

John. Sevenpence-ha'penny. That's three ha'- 
pence profit. Nine pence a week ! We can't live on 
that. 

Mary. You forget the boys' allowance, and Jack 
has saved quite a bit. 

John. We'll not touch a penny of it, Mary, not a 
penny. My savings must go first. The boys'll need 
theirs when the war's over. As for their allowances, 
they've earned them, God knows ! No ! We've got to 
cut down expenses again somehow. I reckon my old 



FOR KING AND COUNTRY 71 

pipe'U have to go. [Sees the paper.] Or the paper 
. . . Why, it's all crumpled. Here, it's torn . . . right 
across the recruiting meeting. 

Jack. I'm sorry, Dad. I must have done it un- 
consciously. 

John. [Looking at Mary askance] Never mind. 
I'll manage to read it. 

Mary. [After a glance at calendar] John, do you 
know what today is? 

John. Day? Day? Why, the twenty-ninth of 
May. What of it? 

Mary. The twenty-ninth of May is the Queen's 
birthday. 

John. Queen Victoria . . . God rest her soul! 
. . . so it is. 

Jack. No, Mother, the twenty-ninth of May is oak- 
apple day. The twenty-fourth of May is the Queen's 
birthday. 

Mary. Is it. Jack? Are you sure? 

John. I don't see what difference it makes. 

Jack. This is oak-apple day, though, Dad. I re- 
member the same day last year. 

John. [Still reading paper] Oh! How's that? 

Jack. Why, that was when Laura West came to 
tea. [John puts down paper.] Don't you remem- 
ber? I was home on leave, and Harry had just got 
into his uniform. He tore himself on a thornbush the 
very first day. 

John. Jack, you talk a deal too much of that West 
girl. You too. Mother. I'm not usually a hard man, 
but it's no good you tryin' to get me to sympathize with 
her. She's done for herself wi' me . . . aye and wi' 
you too, Jack, I should think ... if you've got any 
pride. 

Jack. Dad!! . . . 

John. Now, I don't want to hurt anybody's feel- 



72 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

ings, but I think she's treated you and Harry very bad 
. . . very. Some young scapegrace has got the better 
of her. She's made a fool of herself. She could have 
had either of you lads if she'd kept herself decent. Oh, 
I don't mean she's never to come here again, Mother. 
She's welcome so long as she don't bother me. She 
needs someone to comfort her, and the both of you 
seem ready and willin'. But there's no occasion to 
overdo it. I'd rather not see so much of her, and I'll 
tell you why. I believe as how young Harry was fond 
of her . . . mighty fond. I know you were too, Jack, 
but she was more suited to Harry, and I used to think 
. . . But she's been an' done for herself . . . and it 
hurts me ... it does that. What'll my boy think 
when he comes back to his sweetheart and finds her 
with a child? No! No matter how much she cries 
for sympathy she'll never get it from me. Never. 
No ! Nor from Harry either. There'll be no bastards 
in my family, so help me God ! 

{There is a long pause.] 

Mary. But, John, maybe it wasn't all her fault. 

John. Mary, you know better than that. You're 
a woman. I'm an old man, but I don't forget the time 
when I was young. That girl knew what she was 
doin', that I'll swear. 

Mary. But supposin' she loves Harry. 

John. Then I'm sorry for her. It's too late. My 
boy shan't have second-hand goods. 

Mary. But, John, he might be willing. This is a 
war baby. 

John. Is it? That makes it worse. A girl like 
Laura West, mixing with the crowd that hangs round 
an army camp ! . . . Men she's never seen before ! 

Mary. John you don't know that. 

John. Well . . . can she tell me the man's name? 

[There is a dead silence.] 



FOR KING AND COUNTRY 73 

Jack. Dad, I reckon the country needs all the 
babies it can get. The rector was tellin' me last 
night . . . 

John. That's no excuse for a girl like Laura. The 
rector! . . . Bah! You'll have to quote a better 
authority than him to satisfy me. 

Mary. Very well, John. The words of Our Lord 
Himself, "He that is without sin, let him cast the first 

stone." 

[Enter Laura left.] 

[John rises angrily, thumping on the table.] 

John. I tell you . . . [Something in Mary'.? face 
stops him. He turns and sees Laura standing in the 
doorway.] 

Mary. Come in, Laura. 

Laura. [Coming centre.] [She is a pretty, well- 
developed young woman of about twenty years, neatly 
and quietly dressed.] I beg your pardon, Mr. Foster. 
I didn't think you'd be in. I came to take Jack to the 
meeting. 

John. Well, he's not goin'. 

Laura. Oh, I'm sorry. Then . . . 

Mary. You must stay awhile and tell us all the 
news. Take your hat and jacket off, dear, and make 
yourself at home. 

[Laura hesitates. John goes to door left.] 

Jack. Don't go, Laura, please. 

John. Mary, I'm going out to get a breath of air 
and keep an eye on the shop. 

Jack. [Rising and changing to chair left of table] 
Sit there, Laura . . . next to mother. 

[Laura puts her hat and jacket on the chair up 
right. ] 

Laura [Coming right centre] I hope you're well, 
Mrs. Foster? [Sits right centre.] 



74 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

Mary. Yes, thank you, dear. There's no need to 
ask that question of you. How is the baby? 

Laura. Oh, he's wonderfully well . . . isn't he, 
Jack? 

Jack. H weight's any sign of good health, he's in 
the very pink of condition. 

Mary. We were just talking about you, Laura. 

Laura. Yes, I heard what you said. Thank you 
for taking my part. I'm sorry Mr. Foster doesn't like 
me any more. 

Mary. He's not as hard as he seems, dear. 

Jack. It's not an easy matter to discuss, but we've 
got to have it out. We know about Harry and you 
. . . you must have guessed that. 

LaIura. Jack, please don't go on . . . Oh, Mrs. 
Foster! [She hides her face in her hands. Mary 
draws the girl to her side. ] You don't think me a very 
wicked girl, do you? 

Mary. My dear, you've been very foolish, but even 
the best of us is apt to make mistakes. I can't forget 
that your sin is fully shared by my boy Harry. I 
blame him as much as you. 

Jack. We feel that Dad has got to know, too. 

Laura. Know what? 

Jack. He'd better be told before Harry comes 
home. 

Laura. Is Harry coming home? 

Jack. We haven't heard anything, but he might get 
his leave at any moment. You've got to think of get- 
ting married just as soon as ever he arrives. 

Laura. But what are you going to tell your father? 

Jack. That you and Harry are to be married. 

Laura. [Rising] Isn't that why he's angry with 
me? 

Mary. [Rising to restrain her] The baby, dear, the 
baby. 



FOR KING AND COUNTRY 75 

Laura. I'm not ashamed of the baby ! 

Jack. [Rising] You see, Laura, Dad doesn't know 
it's Harry's. He's not angry with him . . . yet. 

Laura. [Gradually realising] The baby — doesn't 
know — ? Whose could it have been but Harry's? 
Oh! so that's why. [Turning to Jack] I thought he 
was angry because — 

Jack. Because what? 

Laura. I thought he wanted me to marry you. 
[Jack makes a hopeless gesture and slowly exits left.] 
[To Mary] Why, I've never loved anyone but Harry. 
You knew that ? 

Mary. Yes, / knew it, dear, but they didn't. Men 
find it hard to understand some things. 

Laura. That's what I used to say to him. [Chang- 
ing her tone] We didn't mean to do wrong. 

Mary, I know, dear. You shall have your wed- 
ding just the same. 

Laura. And the baby? Can he be christened? I 
do so want him to be christened. 

Mary. Of course, of course. I'll speak to the rec- 
tor. 

Laura. Do you ... do you think I might call him 
Harry? 

Mary. You shan't call him anything else. Now 
you're not to worry. Just leave everything to me. 

Laura. Oh, you're so kind. I don't feel ashamed 
any more. 

Mary. You have paid your price with much suf- 
fering. I wonder how Harry will pay. 

Laura. Surely he's suffering enough . . . out at 
the front? 

Mary. You have told him, then? 

Laura. Oh, no ! no ! I couldn't tell him. I was 
afraid he'd be angry. I meant, his suffering as a sol- 
dier. 



76 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

Mary. That would have come to him in any case. 
It was his duty as a man. No, there will be some 
cross for him to bear. 

Laura. Oh, he couldn't be . . . you don't think he 
could possibly be blind? 

Mary. Would you give him up if he were? 

Laura. It would be terrible ! terrible ! ! 

[Enter John up left followed by Jack. Laura 
and Mary rise. John comes left centre. 
Jack drops down left.] 

John. Is this true? [Mary backs right. Laura 
advances right centre.] Come here! [Laura goes to 
him.] Laura West, you'll tell me the truth. [He 
looks her full in the eye.] Was it my boy Harry? 

Laura. [Drawing herself up and returning his 
gaze fearlessly.] Yes, Mr. Foster. 

[John holds her eyes for a space before turn- 
ing away. She stands motionless. He paces 
to and fro.] 

John. My boy! My Harry! I wouldn't have be- 
lieved it! You must give me time to get over this. 
It's come rather sudden. 

Mary. Now, John, you mustn't get worked up. 

John. Be quiet, Mary. I've got to think this out 
for myself. [He continues to pact the floor, then . . ] 
Ha ! and ten minutes ago I swore there'd never be a 
bastard in our family. [Down left centre.] [Turn- 
ing suddenly on Laura] Do you love him? 

Laura. [She comes down right centre, crossing to 
him.] Yes, I do love him. [She raises her arms in a 
magnificent gesture.] Altogether. 

John. [Looking at her steadfastly for a moment.] 
Well, I'm glad o' that. It makes a deal o' diflFerence. 
[Laura makes a movement toward him.] No . . . 
not yet. It's hard for me to change. Mother, you 



FOR KING AND COUNTRY 'jj 

know that. [Mary holds her hands to Laura who 
goes to her.] I've got to think this out. [He sits left 
of table.] Why didn't you tell me afore? 

Mary. [Stroking Laura'^ hair] It's best for some 
things to come slow, John. 

Jack. We knew you'd be angry, Dad, but you 
mustn't forget Harry's share. 

John. That's it. That's just it! I've always told 
'im. "Run straight," I said . . . "run straight !" He's 
weaker than you, Jack. We had a deal o' trouble wi' 
him when he was a little lad, but I never thought it'd 
'ave come to this ! Eh, it's a bad business. He'll be 
punished for it, you mark my words. God is just. 
Sin reaps its own reward . . always . . always . . 
Well, reproaches won't mend matters. He must marry 
you as soon as ever he comes home. You see that, 
don't you? 

Laura. I'm sure Harry will want to. 

John. Well, I'll see that he does. I've known him 
longer than you, my girl. Things are easier said than 
done wi' him. He was my favorite son, but he's dis- 
appointed me. He's not like Jack. Why couldn't you 
have fallen in love wi' him? He's a good lad is Jack, 
a good lad. 

[Laura goes above table.] 

Jack. Father, you mustn't say anything against 
Harry. Laura loves him. 

John. I know, I know. Ah, it's a contrary world. 
I often think I'll be glad to leave it. 

Mary. John ! 

John. Well, what have we got for all our years of 
striving and praying. We've had four little ones, you 
and me, Mary. Two of 'em left us . . . years ago. 
Our firstborn 'as come back from the war . . . blind. 
And Harry, our baby, has brought shame and dis- 



78 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

honor to this young girl. Is it any wonder that I'll 
be glad to leave such a world? Is it any wonder . . . 

Mary. [Crossing and touching his arm] John, you 
haven't forgotten me, have you? 

John. No, I've still got you, Mother. I've still 
got you. [Leads her to armchair.] 

Jack. Dad, you leave this to me. 

John. How do you mean, leave it to you? [Right 
centre. ] 

Jack. I mean about the wedding. You see, it's 
hardly likely that Harry'll be home for more than a 
day or two. There won't be time to put up the banns. 
We'll have to have a special license. 

John. Eh! They're terrible expensive, I doubt. 
[Sits right of table.] 

Jack. That's where my savings'll come in. You 
won't touch my allowance money, you say. Very 
well, all the more for a weddin' present. My present 
to you, Laura, is the special license. 

Laura. [Left centre] Oh, Jack, if only I could do 
something for you. 

Jack. You can. Now you're goin' to be my sister, 
I'll claim a kiss. 

[She crosses to couch and kisses M'w. ..John 
and Mary exchange a look of understanding. 
Laura comes left centre.] 

John. Laura, I've said some hard things about you 
and the baby, and all the time it's my own blood that's 
been to blame, my own son. I want you to forgive 
me. 

Laura. There's nothing to forgive, Mr. Foster. 

John. Thank you, my dear. I shan't forget that. 
Mother, I feel that we ought to thank the Lord for 
clearing up all this trouble. I'd like us all to join in 
a prayer . . . for our new-found daughter . . . and 



FOR KING AND COUNTRY 79 

for our boy Harry . . . that he may be brought home 
to us safe and sound. 

[Mary and Jack how their heads. Laura 
kneels, resting her head on her arm on the 
hack of the chair left centre. John kneels 
right centre hy the tahle.] 

O, Lord God of Israel, Thou Who art ever ready to 
help the afflicted, heal the sick, comfort the sorrowing, 
to bind up the broken heart. We humbly bow before 
Thee in praise and thanksgiving for lifting from our 
hearts a heavy burden. We bless Thee for Thy 
clemency. We glorify Thy wondrous Name. We 
know our infirmities, Lord, we are as clay in Thy 
hands. We beseech Thee to look with compassion 
upon this. Thy erring daughter, who has even now 
been received by us as a member of our earthly family. 
Heavenly Father, have pity on her, receive her earnest 
repentance for sins committed, and in Thy great com- 
passion, receive her little one into Thy fold. May he 
grow up to be a good and faithful servant in Thy 
tabernacle. Make them both Thy children even as we 
have made them ours. And now, O Lord, we lift our 
voices in supplication to Thee, in behalf of our absent 
son . . . her dearly beloved . . . our baby boy Harry. 
Forgive this his great sin, we beseech Thee. Save 
him from the judgement. Spare him and preserve him 
from all the perils and dangers of this dreadful war. 
Grant unto him patience and endurance, strengthen 
his heart, and, dear Lord, bring him home to us speed- 
ily and in safety. Finally, we pray that Thou wilt 
bring us all, in Thy good time, into Thine Eternal 
Peace. We ask it for Thy dear Name's sake. Amen. 

[There is silence. Mary wipes her eyes and 
Jack raises his head. Laura and John re- 
main kneeling. The shop hell rings harshly. 



8o THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

John rises to his feel. Laura follows suit, 
and Jack reaches for his stick.] 
John. All right, Jack. I'll go. [Exit left.] 

[Laura goes up right for her hat and jacket.] 

Mary. You must stay and have supper with us, 
dear. 

Laura. Oh, may I? 

Mary. Of course. Father will be pleased. Sit 
here while I lay the table. [Rising.] 

Laura. Oh, no, no. You must let me do it. I 
know where everything is. 

Mary. Very well, dear, and thank you. {Sits 
down again.] 

[Laura puts lamp on sideboard, removes red 
cloth and substitutes white tablecloth. Be- 
gins to lay for supper.] 

Jack. [After a pause] Quite like old times, eh, 
Laura ? 

Laura. Yes, Jack. 

Mary. [After another pause] Do you know what 
day it is? 

Laura. [After making sure that the question is 
addressed to her] Why, it's Saturday, isn't it? 

Jack. Mother means the day of the month. 

Laura. [Embarrassed] The day of the month? 

Mary. The twenty-ninth of May. 

Jack. Oak-apple day. 

[Laura drops a cup. It breaks.] 
Hello, what's that? 

John. [Offstage] Jack ! Jack ! ! 

Laura. [Relieved] Mr. Foster's calling you. Jack. 

Jack. [Rising] I'm coming. Dad. [Goes up to 
door left.] The twenty-ninth of May is oak-apple day. 
Don't you remember ? . . . Last year ? [Exit left. ] 



FOR KING AND COUNTRY 8i 

[Laura picks up the cup and, replacing it on 
the table, bursts into tears. Mary rises and 
goes to her.] 

Mary. There, there, dearie. It's only an^ld cup. 
It doesn't matter. 

[Laura continues to sob bitterly. Mary leads 
her down to armchair.] 

Mary. Why, Laura, you mustn't cry so. What is 
it? 

Laura. Oh, why did you remind me? Why? 

Mary. Remind you? What, child? Come, tell 
Mother all about it. {They embrace, Laura gradual- 
ly controlling herself] 

Laura. Last year. Oak-apple day. 

Mary. Yes, yes. 

Laura. That was when I came to tea. 

Mary. Yes, darling. There's nothing to cry about 
in that. 

Laura. But there is, there is. 

Mary. I don't understand. Come . . . come. 

Laura. That was [sob] . . . that was when . . . 
when . . . [She hides her face on Mary's breast] 

Mary. There, there, dearie, it's all over now. 
Everything's going to be all right. Mother'll take care 
of you. 

Laura. And I was feeUng so happy. Everything 
seems different now. I'm ashamed . . . ashamed. 
I don't suppose I'll ever be happy again. 

[Re-enter Jack left. He is greatly agitated. 
He closes the door carefully behind him.] 

Jack. Mother ! Laura ! I . . . I've something to 
... to tell you. [The women move apart. Mary 
rises.] Don't be afraid. You mustn't be alarmed. 

Laura. [Rising] What's the matter? 

Jack. [Coming left centre] Why . . . you know 



82 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

when Dad went out just now . . . some one in the 
shop? 

Mary. Well, who was it? 

Jack. It's . . . it's two fellows from Harry's regi- 
ment. 

Mary. He . . . he's not ... not ... ? 

Jack. They've got him with them. 

Mary and Laura. [In whisper] Dead? 

Jack. No . . . not dead. 

Mary. Thank God. 

Laura. Then what is it? 

Jack. It's all right, Laura. He's not wounded . . 
not a scratch. 

Laura. Well, why doesn't he come in? Why 
didn't you bring him in? [She makes, a movement 
toward the door.] 

Jack. [Moving back to intercept her] Wait. Wait. 
You can't go yet. There's something I've got to tell 
you first. 

[Mary nerves herself for a shock. Laura 
grasps the sideboard for support. ] 

Jack. [Continuing] He's . . . he's very tired . . . 
with the journey . . . seems a bit dazed. 

Mary. Go on, Jack. Tell us the truth. 

Jack. Mother, you're not to take it too hard. It's 
not dangerous, you know. But maybe he won't get 
over it for . . . for a long time. 

Laura. But what is it ? For God's sake, speak ! 

Jack. He's . . . gone a bit queer ... in his head. 

Laura. Mad? 

Jack. Yes, 

Mary. O, God ! My boy ! . . . my boy ! 

Jack. He's not violent, but they say . . . he'll 
never get over it. 

[Laura reels against the sideboard, and stares 
at the door left. Mary sinks into her chair, 



FOR KING AND COUNTRY 83 

sobbing. Jack comes down left. There 
is a slight pause and the door left opens. 
John enters supporting Harry by the 
arm. He is a young man of twenty- 
seven, wearing a mud-bespattered uniform. 
He is quite uninjured physically, but walks 
like a man in a dream. His face is ashen, his 
lower jaw hangs loosely, and his eyes have a 
vacant stare. Mary looks up, gives a gasp 
of horror, and rises. With her eyes still 
fixed on her son, she staggers to the table, 
and, resting both hands upon it, stares across 
at his face. Laura, fascinated, watches her. 
Jack, in an agony of suppressed emotion, 
loosens his grip on his stick, which falls to 
the floor. The sound breaks the tension, and 
John, pulling himself together with a great 
effort, begins to speak.] 
John. It's your mother, Harry lad. 

[Harry turns his head, swallows twice, and 
grins inanely.] 

You're home, home ! 

[Harry wipes his mouth with the back of his 
hand, but gives no sign of recognition. John 
brings Harry down in front of chair left 
centre. Jack sits on couch left.] 

He's a bit dazed, Mother, just a bit dazed. Seems to 

think he's somewhere else. Harry, don't you know 

where you are ? 

[Harry smiles again stupidly. Laura comes 
to back of armchair right. ] 
Mary. [Going to Harry] Harry, my boy, don't 

you know your poor old mother? 

[She gently puts her arms around his neck and 
presses her cheek to his. There is a pause. 



84 THREE PLAYS BY NOEL LESLIE 

Suddenly Harry gives a heavy sigh and takes 
her arms away. She goes right, sobbing. 
John looks appealingly to Laura, who comes 
centre, and, with a great cry, flings herself 
into Harry's arms. He jerks his head back 
angrily and tears her off, pushing her roughly 
aside. She falls in front of the table centre. 
John forces Harry to sit left centre. Mary 
stands right facing her son. In the distance 
the band strikes up "God Save the King." 
The recruiting meeting has begun. Jack in- 
stinctively springs to the salute. John 
loosens his grip on Harry*^ shoulders, and 
the boy slumps in his chair. The women 
watch him anxiously. The music swells. 
Mary bends forward eagerly. Laura leans 
on his right knee, and looks up longingly into 
his face. Harry'^ mouth slackens, and a 
stream of saliva trickles onto his coat. Laura 
shrinks back in terror. He gives a horrible 
chuckle, and, leaning forward, rubs his hands 
gleefully together. As the band begins the 
second verse, he breaks into a gurgling laugh. 
Jack's right hand drops to his side. John 
turns, facing up stage, and bows his head. 
The strains of music cease. Harry laughs 
again, with an hysterically rising inflection.^ 

THE curtain falls 



